Post by Tommy Bartlett on Sept 10, 2012 3:35:16 GMT -4
The term "Misunderstood Monster" is very overused in our society. Everyone talks about 50 Shades of Grey these days... like there are some people who can seem harsh and sick and even evil at times but if you look at them in a different light, they're reallly not all that bad. You could even like them if you view their motives at a certain angle. You could even cheer them under the right circumstances.
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett is not one of those people. There may be many shades of gray but there's only one shade of black. He's not sure if its really possible for a person's soul to be empty and black... he doesn't see himself as evil or fucked up, this is just all he's ever known.____________________________________________________
September 5th, 2012 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA
Michael Lively's microphone holder and all around bitchboy, Jerry O'Harrow, leans against the getaway car parked in front of a house. Its late at night and he looks around to see if anyone's watching as two figures emerge from a house.
He picks up a camera and makes sure he gets this on tape... the imagery is one of a kind. The fact that these two monsters are just walking out of this house like its just another normal night is utterly mind boggling to this lackey after all the crashes and screams and cries of pain and other even more disturbing sounds he heard all the way from the street for the last hour. You would think that any normal men would be sticking to the shadows and doing their best not to be seen... if there was any way you could miss these two. But Jerry is pretty sure that subtlety wasn't necessarily what The JESUS was going for. He had to know in his near omnipotence that The Irish Hammer, Sabur and "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett wouldn't be the two stealthiest options he could've picked. No, despite the aliases and carefully constructed allibis that Michael LIvely had so meticulously put in place, he wanted a statement to be made. He wanted it to be known who exactly was responsible for this little piece of carnage that occured in this sleepy neighborhood. Jerry had no clue how the hell they were going to get away with this but he's already learned that when you trust in The JESUS, all things are possible.
A streetlight illuminates the two shadowy masses a bit better. Sabur is wearing a black wifebeater-style tanktop that almost seems almost literally painted onto his overy muscular frame. The fabric is torn in a few spots, presumably where their target fought back against these two behemoths, but you can tell by the way The Irish Hammer came out of this relatively unscathed that he wasn't the one who really got his hands dirty in this whole mess. But what Tommy Bartlett is wearing is what Jerry O'Harrow really wanted to record for posterity's sake. See, one of the many unsettling things that Jerry has observed in his few interactions with The Crippler is that he never seems to wear a shirt. Who knows why? Maybe with a body as massive as his at 7 ft tall and weighing in at over 350 lbs, its difficult to find Hurrcane Jeff hoodies his size. But Michael Lively's Professional Microphone Holder thinks its something far creepier than that. Tommy Bartlett gives off the impression that he doesn't like to be restricted in any way. From what Jerry O'Harrow has seen, Tommy almost exclusively prefers to be outdoors... especially after sundown... maybe almaost always topless because he wants as little between his body and the nocturnal energies that he seems to crave. He also doesn't shave his chest like most professional wrestlers do, either. Sweat always matting his curly blonde chest hair like Tommy Bartlett's natural internal body temperature is hotter than the average human's. But, tonight, Bartlett went into Young Mannie's house bare chested as always and now he's come out wearing what looks to be a slightly worn-looking, bright red t-shirt. If Jerry didn't know any better, he'd swear the clothing is actually dripping.
Zooming the camera in, a jolt of horror surges through Jerry O'Harrow's body like a wave and for a moment, he almost loses consciousness. See, the shirt isn't dripping at all and its not for the reason you'd think, either... Its not that the shirt isn't wet, its that Tommy Bartlett isn't wearing a shirt at all. He's covered in fresh, bright red blood... and I mean covered like a baloon full of the stuff exploded on him. Closer inspection shows that his face is splattered with the thick, sticky stuff like warpaint. With the camera zoomed in this close, we can make out some of the conversation going on.
Sabur: Alright, Man... I'm sorry, but this has to be said... What the fuck was all that?
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett turns towards his "partner" as they stride across the lawn, his gunmetal gray eyes looking over Sabur curiously, as if for the first time and The Irish Hammer shudders, deciding that he might have liked it better when Tommy Bartlett's mind seemed to be lost in Parts Unknown. Back in that house, there were moments where it was almost like Bartlett didn't even know Sabur was there...
Tommy Bartlett: What are you talking about? All what?
Sabur almost snorts a laugh... he would have but he realizes suddenly that he doesn't think The Crippler is making a joke or just fucking with him. He genuinely doesn't look like he knows he went way over the line back there.
Sabur: Are you serious, Bartlett?! Lively told us to take Young Mannie out not put the poor sonofabitch down like a bad dog. I swear, if I hadn't pulled you off of the guy when you had him trapped in that Kimura Lock of yours, you would've ripped the man's arm clean off! I swear I heard the bone snap... and that angle that his arm was laying in sure the hell wasn't natural! I mean... I've never even seen a guy hit another man so many times... you'd think you just caught him fucking your wife instead of just being a job you were doing. I mean, look at you, Bartlett! You're literally covered in blood!
As The Irish Hammer says this last part, Tommy looks down and seems to notice the gore covering his torso for the first time. When you see the way his gunmetal gray eyes appraise his current situation, you'd almost thing he was observing the substance with a kind of detached, clinical, alien curiosity... but you'd quickly correct yourself when you see the way Bartlett's thin lips curl into an evil smile. You immediately realize that this monster thoroughly enjoyed every last second of the nightmare that went on inside that house.
Tommy: That's ridiculous, Sabur... I don't have a wife. But relax, none of this blood is mine.
They reach the car and Jerry O'Harrow almost trips over himself in his haste to get out of their way, darting around the getaway vehicle to the Driver's Side door. The Crippler reaches for his door handle and Sabur violenty pushes him with one meathook of a hand, turning this demon to meet his eyes. But whatever Sabur was about to say gets cut off before it can even pass his lips as he looks down at his palm... looking like he just touched a freshly painted firetruck. The Irish Hammer looks up at this new guy with dawning realization. He's tried to be the rampaging monster before. This is the ruthless beast that APW has always needed... that Trevor Blackwell tried to train Sabur to be... that Michael Lively wants. And yet The Crippler seems to fulfill this role so naturally. Bartlett sighs and talks to Sabur as soothingly as he's capable of.
Tommy: Look... we did the job we were told to do. If "Mr 420" ever returns to the ring, it'll be a modern day medical miracle. Honestly, I think Young Mannie will be forever grateful to us for this. This is the moment that will make his career. If that poor sonofabitch can even walk again, he's going to look like the toughest bastard on the planet. This will be the finest moment of his otherwise pathetic career.
With that, "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett seems to fold his long legs under him as he squeezes into the front seat of a midsize sedan that obviously was never meant to contain a creature such as him. Sabur is about to get into the back seat when he stops and can't help but laugh.
Sabur: Y'know what? The truly sad part is you're probably right.
Then he glares at Tommy Bartlett with jealous anger.
Sabur: Asshole didn't even call shotgun...
____________________________________________________
September 9th, 2012 Toronto, Ontario, Canada
There's an age-old saying that goes something like, "Those who can, do... Those who can't, talk about it... at length" The reality of this statement has never been driven home as hard for "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett as it has this week after watching his first ever APW Monday Night Meltdown opponents' promos.
The JESUS, Michael Lively's Personal Cameraman, Chubbs has his camera trained on the locker room that Michael Lively likes to call a Den of Wolves these days. The room certainly does have the feeling of something huge starting right here within these four walls. But for now, there are just the two of them there. "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett and his new mentor, The APW North American Champion, "The JESUS" Michael Lively. They sit in folding chairs in front of a flatscreen television monitor watching Ryan Collins's recent promo for this week's Monday Night Meltdown... again. Lively turns his head towards his new protege and shakes his head... really not sure what to make of him just yet.
Michael Lively: Why are we watching this promo again, Tommy? This is the third time... It wasn't entertaining the first time, why the hell are you subjecting us to this?
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett's eyes stay focused on the monitor. His gunmetal grays never shifting even in the slightest from Ryan Collins's face on screen even as he talks to his boss.
Tommy Bartlett: That's just it... I keep thinking that if I watch this shlock enough times, I might actually find some redeeming quality in it. I mean, this is Action Packed Wrestling for Lively's sake... Ryan Collins has just been hired as an APW Megastar! Those are supposed to be the best of the best that the wrestling world has to offer! There has to be a reason why he's here...
The JESUS leans back in his chair and rubs the skin between his eyes tiredly... he feels like he's been staring at this screen for so long they're starting to water. He utters a short laugh under his breath before speaking.
Lively: Maybe this little prick gives a really good blowjob... I mean, I can't imagine that his ass would be very tight, he definitely looks more like a catcher to me... But maybe with all the boring drivel that comes out of this hack's mouth, he's gotten enough teeth knocked out that he gives some serious head.
The Crippler leans forward with his elbows resting on his treetrunk-like thighs, the steel folding chair creaking as it buckles a little bit under his 350 lbs. His eyes so still and focuses that he could be mistaken for catatonic. He exhales a long, slow breath.
Tommy: Maybe... I mean, it has to be something that President Jeff and GM Diamond see in him that I'm just not, right? Its certainly not originality. Look at this guy... first of all, he's doing an in ring-promo. I've watched enough wrestling over the years to know that EVERYONE does in-ring promos when they can't think of anything else. But this is only his second appearance in APW, do you mean to tell me that he's run out of material already?! And his shtick is the most generic and uninspired gimmick in all of wrestling. He's a pretty boy, rich guy that likes to talk down to the fans. But its not even like he's good at it! This guy is so beneath my notice, its unreal... Forget being in my league, I'm not even sure we're playing the same game! He's a mediocre mid-carder at best. Filler for when someone no-shows a match at the last minute.
Michael Lively almost looks like he was dozing off for a moment but snaps up to attention. He tries to shake off the boredom-induced coma that watching this promo for the third time threatens to bring down on him.
Lively: Seriously... I really hope that neither of us ever have to wrestle this guy again. I can't imagine being subjected to shitty promos like this over and over. I swear, if it wasn't for the crate of Monster Energy Drinks I had left over from when Kenny Lambardo was World Champion, I don't think I would've made it this far... Even this guy's name is unoriginal? The Instant Classic? Like we've never heard that one before.
Again, Tommy Bartlett doesn't even seem to be aware of Michael Lively's attempts at lightening up the situation. No fatigue there, The Crippler's gunmetal gray eyes are wide open and bloodshot. And he hasn't touched any of the Monsters either. This is just what he's like when preparing for a match... get used to it.
Tommy: This must be laziness... plain and simple... It seems like Collins couldn't even be bothered to do his homework on me. I mean, its not like I've been cryptic and mysterious about who I am and what I'm capable of.... If he hasn't been paying attention and honestly believes that I'm merely a "Big Man Power Wrestler" then Monday night is REALLY going to be fun... he's have absolutely no fucking clue about what's coming. And I think I like that... the surprise in his voice when he screams out in pain from any one of my patented submission holds will make the scent of the terror and hopelessness he feels when he realizes that there's not a damn thing he can do to escape my grasp even more intoxicating.
The Crippler picks up the remote control to the box under the monitor and presses a button. On screen, the images change to Ace Andrews's promo. Despite all of the guarana and ginseng and other natural stimulants coursing through The JESUS's veins from the empty cans of energy drink strewn around his chair, his head drops down to his chest as his eyes close and a low snore can be heard. Bartlett doesn't seem to notice and after about two minutes of this promo, his forehead creases in confusion. He presses a button and on screen, the segment starts to fast forward before he presses play again and shakes his boss awake.
Lively: WHAT?! YOU BETTER NOT TRY TO FUCK MY MOM OR...
The JESUS looks around bewildered and finally darts glances between the screen and his protege, turning a bit red from embarassment.
Lively: Sorry, Tommy... I guess I kinda nodded off for a moment...
The Crippler doesn't seem to notice, his eyes still on the screen as he speaks.
Tommy: What the hell happened? I thought you said you Tivo'd Ace Andrews's promo right after Collins's...
Again, The JESUS glances at the screen and starts to look at his new friend like he's a retard.
Lively: What are you talking about? This IS Ace's promo...
Finally, Tommy Bartlett's confused gaze leaves the screen and regards Michael Lively.
Tommy: But isn't this the same promo I just watched? They're identical! These guys even kinda look the same...
The JESUS laughs and shakes his head, standing up and cracking his back... stiff from sitting in the chair for so long.
Lively: No, sadly enough, this guy is just as unoriginal as Ryan Collins.
The Crippler looks back to the screen, still confused... but the expression eventually changes to frustration and pity.
Tommy: That's fucking horrible... They even have the same damn gimmick. Both Ace Andrews and Ryan Collins have the same tired rich playboy shtick. They both seem like they're just trying to sell the crowd on an infomercial about how great they are and how they're destined for superstardom and World Title reigns... Now I see the difference... at least Andrews did some research... I guess when you have that kind of money, you can buy anything... even supposedly classified information. He thinks I'm crazy, though. That's the part I don't get...
Michael Lively almost laughs but instead feels bad when he realizes that Bartlett is serious.
Lively: That's the part you don't get... hoo-boy...
Tommy Bartlett ignores The JESUS at this point... his eyes showing that he's lost in Parts Unknown... just ranting now...
Tommy: I hate that term... crazy... I've been called it all my life. Just because a person sees the world differently... sees it more clearly than the masses... he must be crazy. I'm not insane... I'm enlightened. I can see these sheep for what they are. There's no way I could imagine either of these guys possibly progressing to the main event. Neither one of them could draw a crowd. Shit, I don't think Ace Andrews could draw flies. He's rocking the same generic, cookie-cutter, cliched bullshit that countless others have before him, including Ryan Collins. I mean, I haven't heard word one from Ace Andrews before this. He couldn't even be bothered to record a debut segment to whet the fans' appetites for his real promos. I waited all week to get something I could work with and this is the bullshit we're subjected to?! If this is the best either of these assholes got, Monday Night is gonna be a walk in the park. I'm tired of this lackluster, manufactured, contrived bullshit. So are the fans... there's nothing new or original or creative about a damn thing here. The General Manager must hate it too. I mean, what the hell else would he have put me into this Triple Threat Match? Do I seem like I even remotely belong amongst the beautiful valets and sculpted hair and vaseline covered teeth and cheap costume jewelry covered robes? I'm not a Sports Entertainer like these two chumps. I'm not even what you would call a Warrior or an Ass Kicker... I'm a Predator... I'm a Hunter. I could honestly care less about whether I have my hand raised in victory... I just want to break these two clowns. I want the satisfaction of hearing them beg for mercy. I want to hear their muscles stretch beyond their capabilities... I want to hear the brittle snap of their bones and feel their shuddering breaths as the pain shoots through their bodies and makes it impossible for them to use their vaunted advanced intellects. They can have their wins... I just want them both carried out on stretchers... Y'know, you'll never hear me brag on and on about how greatness or my brains or my power. These losers remind me of those guys... everyone knows them... the ones that feel the need to constantly brag about how big their dicks are and how amazing they are in bed and how they can make a girl cum for hours. They're just braggarts... and those are my favorite kind of people to snap. Its all compensation... the truly great ones know that they don't have to brag. I don't have to talk about my prowess, soon enough everyone else will be talking about it... And by the time anyone realizes that our plans have been enacted, it'll be too late to do anything about it, Lively... Lively?
But the only response Tommy Bartlett receives are the sonorous rumbling of The JESUS's deep sleep... already lost in dream land. This finally makes The Crippler laugh as he turns back to the screen... his eyes falling on the form of Ace Andrews's assistant, Jessica Lodge.
Tommy: Y'know something? Now that's something special....
A wicked glint lights up Tommy Bartlett's eyes with twisted potential as he suddenly stands up and storms out of the room on a hunt... stalking down the hallway like a lion on the prowl he turns a corner and sees the beautiful Jessi-
The rest of this scene has been cut off at the urgent request of Ace Andrews and Jessica Lodge
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett is not one of those people. There may be many shades of gray but there's only one shade of black. He's not sure if its really possible for a person's soul to be empty and black... he doesn't see himself as evil or fucked up, this is just all he's ever known.____________________________________________________
September 5th, 2012 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA
Michael Lively's microphone holder and all around bitchboy, Jerry O'Harrow, leans against the getaway car parked in front of a house. Its late at night and he looks around to see if anyone's watching as two figures emerge from a house.
He picks up a camera and makes sure he gets this on tape... the imagery is one of a kind. The fact that these two monsters are just walking out of this house like its just another normal night is utterly mind boggling to this lackey after all the crashes and screams and cries of pain and other even more disturbing sounds he heard all the way from the street for the last hour. You would think that any normal men would be sticking to the shadows and doing their best not to be seen... if there was any way you could miss these two. But Jerry is pretty sure that subtlety wasn't necessarily what The JESUS was going for. He had to know in his near omnipotence that The Irish Hammer, Sabur and "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett wouldn't be the two stealthiest options he could've picked. No, despite the aliases and carefully constructed allibis that Michael LIvely had so meticulously put in place, he wanted a statement to be made. He wanted it to be known who exactly was responsible for this little piece of carnage that occured in this sleepy neighborhood. Jerry had no clue how the hell they were going to get away with this but he's already learned that when you trust in The JESUS, all things are possible.
A streetlight illuminates the two shadowy masses a bit better. Sabur is wearing a black wifebeater-style tanktop that almost seems almost literally painted onto his overy muscular frame. The fabric is torn in a few spots, presumably where their target fought back against these two behemoths, but you can tell by the way The Irish Hammer came out of this relatively unscathed that he wasn't the one who really got his hands dirty in this whole mess. But what Tommy Bartlett is wearing is what Jerry O'Harrow really wanted to record for posterity's sake. See, one of the many unsettling things that Jerry has observed in his few interactions with The Crippler is that he never seems to wear a shirt. Who knows why? Maybe with a body as massive as his at 7 ft tall and weighing in at over 350 lbs, its difficult to find Hurrcane Jeff hoodies his size. But Michael Lively's Professional Microphone Holder thinks its something far creepier than that. Tommy Bartlett gives off the impression that he doesn't like to be restricted in any way. From what Jerry O'Harrow has seen, Tommy almost exclusively prefers to be outdoors... especially after sundown... maybe almaost always topless because he wants as little between his body and the nocturnal energies that he seems to crave. He also doesn't shave his chest like most professional wrestlers do, either. Sweat always matting his curly blonde chest hair like Tommy Bartlett's natural internal body temperature is hotter than the average human's. But, tonight, Bartlett went into Young Mannie's house bare chested as always and now he's come out wearing what looks to be a slightly worn-looking, bright red t-shirt. If Jerry didn't know any better, he'd swear the clothing is actually dripping.
Zooming the camera in, a jolt of horror surges through Jerry O'Harrow's body like a wave and for a moment, he almost loses consciousness. See, the shirt isn't dripping at all and its not for the reason you'd think, either... Its not that the shirt isn't wet, its that Tommy Bartlett isn't wearing a shirt at all. He's covered in fresh, bright red blood... and I mean covered like a baloon full of the stuff exploded on him. Closer inspection shows that his face is splattered with the thick, sticky stuff like warpaint. With the camera zoomed in this close, we can make out some of the conversation going on.
Sabur: Alright, Man... I'm sorry, but this has to be said... What the fuck was all that?
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett turns towards his "partner" as they stride across the lawn, his gunmetal gray eyes looking over Sabur curiously, as if for the first time and The Irish Hammer shudders, deciding that he might have liked it better when Tommy Bartlett's mind seemed to be lost in Parts Unknown. Back in that house, there were moments where it was almost like Bartlett didn't even know Sabur was there...
Tommy Bartlett: What are you talking about? All what?
Sabur almost snorts a laugh... he would have but he realizes suddenly that he doesn't think The Crippler is making a joke or just fucking with him. He genuinely doesn't look like he knows he went way over the line back there.
Sabur: Are you serious, Bartlett?! Lively told us to take Young Mannie out not put the poor sonofabitch down like a bad dog. I swear, if I hadn't pulled you off of the guy when you had him trapped in that Kimura Lock of yours, you would've ripped the man's arm clean off! I swear I heard the bone snap... and that angle that his arm was laying in sure the hell wasn't natural! I mean... I've never even seen a guy hit another man so many times... you'd think you just caught him fucking your wife instead of just being a job you were doing. I mean, look at you, Bartlett! You're literally covered in blood!
As The Irish Hammer says this last part, Tommy looks down and seems to notice the gore covering his torso for the first time. When you see the way his gunmetal gray eyes appraise his current situation, you'd almost thing he was observing the substance with a kind of detached, clinical, alien curiosity... but you'd quickly correct yourself when you see the way Bartlett's thin lips curl into an evil smile. You immediately realize that this monster thoroughly enjoyed every last second of the nightmare that went on inside that house.
Tommy: That's ridiculous, Sabur... I don't have a wife. But relax, none of this blood is mine.
They reach the car and Jerry O'Harrow almost trips over himself in his haste to get out of their way, darting around the getaway vehicle to the Driver's Side door. The Crippler reaches for his door handle and Sabur violenty pushes him with one meathook of a hand, turning this demon to meet his eyes. But whatever Sabur was about to say gets cut off before it can even pass his lips as he looks down at his palm... looking like he just touched a freshly painted firetruck. The Irish Hammer looks up at this new guy with dawning realization. He's tried to be the rampaging monster before. This is the ruthless beast that APW has always needed... that Trevor Blackwell tried to train Sabur to be... that Michael Lively wants. And yet The Crippler seems to fulfill this role so naturally. Bartlett sighs and talks to Sabur as soothingly as he's capable of.
Tommy: Look... we did the job we were told to do. If "Mr 420" ever returns to the ring, it'll be a modern day medical miracle. Honestly, I think Young Mannie will be forever grateful to us for this. This is the moment that will make his career. If that poor sonofabitch can even walk again, he's going to look like the toughest bastard on the planet. This will be the finest moment of his otherwise pathetic career.
With that, "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett seems to fold his long legs under him as he squeezes into the front seat of a midsize sedan that obviously was never meant to contain a creature such as him. Sabur is about to get into the back seat when he stops and can't help but laugh.
Sabur: Y'know what? The truly sad part is you're probably right.
Then he glares at Tommy Bartlett with jealous anger.
Sabur: Asshole didn't even call shotgun...
____________________________________________________
September 9th, 2012 Toronto, Ontario, Canada
There's an age-old saying that goes something like, "Those who can, do... Those who can't, talk about it... at length" The reality of this statement has never been driven home as hard for "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett as it has this week after watching his first ever APW Monday Night Meltdown opponents' promos.
The JESUS, Michael Lively's Personal Cameraman, Chubbs has his camera trained on the locker room that Michael Lively likes to call a Den of Wolves these days. The room certainly does have the feeling of something huge starting right here within these four walls. But for now, there are just the two of them there. "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett and his new mentor, The APW North American Champion, "The JESUS" Michael Lively. They sit in folding chairs in front of a flatscreen television monitor watching Ryan Collins's recent promo for this week's Monday Night Meltdown... again. Lively turns his head towards his new protege and shakes his head... really not sure what to make of him just yet.
Michael Lively: Why are we watching this promo again, Tommy? This is the third time... It wasn't entertaining the first time, why the hell are you subjecting us to this?
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett's eyes stay focused on the monitor. His gunmetal grays never shifting even in the slightest from Ryan Collins's face on screen even as he talks to his boss.
Tommy Bartlett: That's just it... I keep thinking that if I watch this shlock enough times, I might actually find some redeeming quality in it. I mean, this is Action Packed Wrestling for Lively's sake... Ryan Collins has just been hired as an APW Megastar! Those are supposed to be the best of the best that the wrestling world has to offer! There has to be a reason why he's here...
The JESUS leans back in his chair and rubs the skin between his eyes tiredly... he feels like he's been staring at this screen for so long they're starting to water. He utters a short laugh under his breath before speaking.
Lively: Maybe this little prick gives a really good blowjob... I mean, I can't imagine that his ass would be very tight, he definitely looks more like a catcher to me... But maybe with all the boring drivel that comes out of this hack's mouth, he's gotten enough teeth knocked out that he gives some serious head.
The Crippler leans forward with his elbows resting on his treetrunk-like thighs, the steel folding chair creaking as it buckles a little bit under his 350 lbs. His eyes so still and focuses that he could be mistaken for catatonic. He exhales a long, slow breath.
Tommy: Maybe... I mean, it has to be something that President Jeff and GM Diamond see in him that I'm just not, right? Its certainly not originality. Look at this guy... first of all, he's doing an in ring-promo. I've watched enough wrestling over the years to know that EVERYONE does in-ring promos when they can't think of anything else. But this is only his second appearance in APW, do you mean to tell me that he's run out of material already?! And his shtick is the most generic and uninspired gimmick in all of wrestling. He's a pretty boy, rich guy that likes to talk down to the fans. But its not even like he's good at it! This guy is so beneath my notice, its unreal... Forget being in my league, I'm not even sure we're playing the same game! He's a mediocre mid-carder at best. Filler for when someone no-shows a match at the last minute.
Michael Lively almost looks like he was dozing off for a moment but snaps up to attention. He tries to shake off the boredom-induced coma that watching this promo for the third time threatens to bring down on him.
Lively: Seriously... I really hope that neither of us ever have to wrestle this guy again. I can't imagine being subjected to shitty promos like this over and over. I swear, if it wasn't for the crate of Monster Energy Drinks I had left over from when Kenny Lambardo was World Champion, I don't think I would've made it this far... Even this guy's name is unoriginal? The Instant Classic? Like we've never heard that one before.
Again, Tommy Bartlett doesn't even seem to be aware of Michael Lively's attempts at lightening up the situation. No fatigue there, The Crippler's gunmetal gray eyes are wide open and bloodshot. And he hasn't touched any of the Monsters either. This is just what he's like when preparing for a match... get used to it.
Tommy: This must be laziness... plain and simple... It seems like Collins couldn't even be bothered to do his homework on me. I mean, its not like I've been cryptic and mysterious about who I am and what I'm capable of.... If he hasn't been paying attention and honestly believes that I'm merely a "Big Man Power Wrestler" then Monday night is REALLY going to be fun... he's have absolutely no fucking clue about what's coming. And I think I like that... the surprise in his voice when he screams out in pain from any one of my patented submission holds will make the scent of the terror and hopelessness he feels when he realizes that there's not a damn thing he can do to escape my grasp even more intoxicating.
The Crippler picks up the remote control to the box under the monitor and presses a button. On screen, the images change to Ace Andrews's promo. Despite all of the guarana and ginseng and other natural stimulants coursing through The JESUS's veins from the empty cans of energy drink strewn around his chair, his head drops down to his chest as his eyes close and a low snore can be heard. Bartlett doesn't seem to notice and after about two minutes of this promo, his forehead creases in confusion. He presses a button and on screen, the segment starts to fast forward before he presses play again and shakes his boss awake.
Lively: WHAT?! YOU BETTER NOT TRY TO FUCK MY MOM OR...
The JESUS looks around bewildered and finally darts glances between the screen and his protege, turning a bit red from embarassment.
Lively: Sorry, Tommy... I guess I kinda nodded off for a moment...
The Crippler doesn't seem to notice, his eyes still on the screen as he speaks.
Tommy: What the hell happened? I thought you said you Tivo'd Ace Andrews's promo right after Collins's...
Again, The JESUS glances at the screen and starts to look at his new friend like he's a retard.
Lively: What are you talking about? This IS Ace's promo...
Finally, Tommy Bartlett's confused gaze leaves the screen and regards Michael Lively.
Tommy: But isn't this the same promo I just watched? They're identical! These guys even kinda look the same...
The JESUS laughs and shakes his head, standing up and cracking his back... stiff from sitting in the chair for so long.
Lively: No, sadly enough, this guy is just as unoriginal as Ryan Collins.
The Crippler looks back to the screen, still confused... but the expression eventually changes to frustration and pity.
Tommy: That's fucking horrible... They even have the same damn gimmick. Both Ace Andrews and Ryan Collins have the same tired rich playboy shtick. They both seem like they're just trying to sell the crowd on an infomercial about how great they are and how they're destined for superstardom and World Title reigns... Now I see the difference... at least Andrews did some research... I guess when you have that kind of money, you can buy anything... even supposedly classified information. He thinks I'm crazy, though. That's the part I don't get...
Michael Lively almost laughs but instead feels bad when he realizes that Bartlett is serious.
Lively: That's the part you don't get... hoo-boy...
Tommy Bartlett ignores The JESUS at this point... his eyes showing that he's lost in Parts Unknown... just ranting now...
Tommy: I hate that term... crazy... I've been called it all my life. Just because a person sees the world differently... sees it more clearly than the masses... he must be crazy. I'm not insane... I'm enlightened. I can see these sheep for what they are. There's no way I could imagine either of these guys possibly progressing to the main event. Neither one of them could draw a crowd. Shit, I don't think Ace Andrews could draw flies. He's rocking the same generic, cookie-cutter, cliched bullshit that countless others have before him, including Ryan Collins. I mean, I haven't heard word one from Ace Andrews before this. He couldn't even be bothered to record a debut segment to whet the fans' appetites for his real promos. I waited all week to get something I could work with and this is the bullshit we're subjected to?! If this is the best either of these assholes got, Monday Night is gonna be a walk in the park. I'm tired of this lackluster, manufactured, contrived bullshit. So are the fans... there's nothing new or original or creative about a damn thing here. The General Manager must hate it too. I mean, what the hell else would he have put me into this Triple Threat Match? Do I seem like I even remotely belong amongst the beautiful valets and sculpted hair and vaseline covered teeth and cheap costume jewelry covered robes? I'm not a Sports Entertainer like these two chumps. I'm not even what you would call a Warrior or an Ass Kicker... I'm a Predator... I'm a Hunter. I could honestly care less about whether I have my hand raised in victory... I just want to break these two clowns. I want the satisfaction of hearing them beg for mercy. I want to hear their muscles stretch beyond their capabilities... I want to hear the brittle snap of their bones and feel their shuddering breaths as the pain shoots through their bodies and makes it impossible for them to use their vaunted advanced intellects. They can have their wins... I just want them both carried out on stretchers... Y'know, you'll never hear me brag on and on about how greatness or my brains or my power. These losers remind me of those guys... everyone knows them... the ones that feel the need to constantly brag about how big their dicks are and how amazing they are in bed and how they can make a girl cum for hours. They're just braggarts... and those are my favorite kind of people to snap. Its all compensation... the truly great ones know that they don't have to brag. I don't have to talk about my prowess, soon enough everyone else will be talking about it... And by the time anyone realizes that our plans have been enacted, it'll be too late to do anything about it, Lively... Lively?
But the only response Tommy Bartlett receives are the sonorous rumbling of The JESUS's deep sleep... already lost in dream land. This finally makes The Crippler laugh as he turns back to the screen... his eyes falling on the form of Ace Andrews's assistant, Jessica Lodge.
Tommy: Y'know something? Now that's something special....
A wicked glint lights up Tommy Bartlett's eyes with twisted potential as he suddenly stands up and storms out of the room on a hunt... stalking down the hallway like a lion on the prowl he turns a corner and sees the beautiful Jessi-
The rest of this scene has been cut off at the urgent request of Ace Andrews and Jessica Lodge
