Post by Your JESUS on Sept 14, 2012 15:41:07 GMT -4
September 10th, 2012
My eyes flicker to life and my pupils are overwhelmed with light. A numbness has overtaken my body as I lay still briefly trying to gather my thoughts. I move my right hand as my body begins to tingle. The eerie silence slowly fades as the sound of rushing water fills my ears. I an unaware of my surrounds momentarily then the last memory I had fills my thought process. I roll to my side feeling like a bachelor that just awoke from a late drunken stupor unsure why I feel pain. The North American title slides of my chest as I clutch my head trying to gain relief. A ref leans down asking if I'm ok, I simply pay him no mind as I grab my symbolic crown and roll out of the ring with it in my grasp. I start my walk of shame up the ramp trying to drown out the APW faithful as the revel in my agony.
Some men may suffocated with embarrassment, or over taken with disappointment. I have been in this game long enough to know that every path in this bitch has a winding road. Often times we stay on the path, while on rare occasions gentlemen like Krunk and Michael Stromboli don their offload tires trying to bypass curved pavement in hopes to get a straight shot. I would offer up advice to these men but this is the path they chose. They will learn in time a dip passed over here only leads to nasty bumps further down the road. We will see if they have the suspension to handle course.
Lost in my thoughts I end up back in my locker room. I stare at the door momentarily as the noise inside can be heard. You may be wondering my mental state in this instance. I'm a savvy son of a bitch and tonight I simply got caught slipping. It happens and it you think anything different then I suggest you turn in your boots, sell off your tights, and return you Rey Mysterio starter mask because wrestling might not be your gig. On this night Krunk stepped up to the plate. I shrugged him off as if he were just some member of the ring crew filling a spot because Mannie bitched out. Stromboli did the same and ended up on the losing end of this nights payroll as well. lost. He didn't waste a moment to stamp his Joe Pesci sized boot across my dome piece in what I'm sure he hopes was a message sent. So back to my mind set, congrats to both men, even though neither one of those rat bastards will ever hear it come from my lips. All they will simply know is there is hell to be paid. I kick the door to my locker room open to find Jerry O'Harrow chugging a beer. Chubs was dancing to music while The Irish Hammer had his nose buried in a Hunger Games Book.
Lively: What the fuck? I'm getting my ass stomped out like a jail house snitch, and the man I pay to watch my back...is back here reading God Damn Mocking Jay!!!!
I throw my title on a chair as Chubs cuts off the iPod. Sabur slams the book shut and leans back in the chair like a disgusted teenager really unenthused by the scolding his parent is putting forth.
Sabur: Maybe...I thought your boy Bartlett had it covered!!!
Lively: Bartlett? He clearly fucking dropped the ball too, didn't he. You are all pissed off because I brought him in? I wouldn't be surprised if you left me out there on purpose.
Sabur shoots me a slight grin as if I touched on the truth. This action ignites my fury and I fly across the room and slap the book out of his hand. The big man quickly stands from his folding chair looking down at me. The veins in his neck bulge as his nostrils flare. Jerry O'Harrow stops drinking his beer and just stares on like a middle schooler waiting for a fight to break loose in the hallway. Sadly there will be no fight. I know as long as I don't lay a violent hand on my Human Wrecking Machine he will simply contain his inner pink Hulk, and all this will be is a simple stare down.
Lively: Some cock sucking Italian douche canoe felt he could stomp his way into the title picture tonight. He laid boots to the JESUS. I vaguely remember something about an eye for an eye being written in MY book!!!
Sabur's face forms a smile with a devious look lit in his eyes, because he knows that our beef is settled for the moment. He also realizes my egotistical, yet off the script mind has something cooked up.
September 15th, 2012
My heart beats with the blood of a champion. I have always been one showered with gold, a recipient of accolades fit for a king, greatness just rains upon me. I set out to simply just change the face of Meltdown so it isn't looked down upon, or violated like a scantly clad woman that woke up in a pile of vomit with a GHB headache, and panties stuck to the crack of her ass via some man made Elmer's glue. I wanted to bring this brand a level of respect, give it a sense of pride so that people wouldn't look for their stepping stone out the door. Wouldn't you know in my simple expedition to lead this place to the promise land, I added a title to my collection. Now the door in and out of Meltdown has a detour that leads straight to Mount Zion. Atop this glorious mountain sits the Dastardly Deity, Your JESUS. This Monday Commissioner Gordon's half wit cousin Johnny Diamond has turned on the Lively signal. I will step down from my Godly throne, hop in the Lively-mobile and drive that bitch into the Big Sky country. I once again put on a seminar on what perfection is.
I walk from a dark tunnel and step out on to fresh cut grass. I make my way across the green plush toward center field as it is now clear I am in a football stadium. Followed by Sabur and Tommy Bartlett we stand in formation as I cut loose.
Lively: Missoula Montana, not too far from Billings, but just far enough for the complete stench of that shit hole not to pollute my nostrils. This is the home of the Grizzlies, the one college in this state that can actually win a football game. Unlike that second rate community college in Billings.
Dressed in jeans and a red "In Lively We Trust" t-shirt. Like usual my eyes covered by sunglasses until I remove them and place them on my forehead.
Lively: This Monday, Meltdown takes place in a fucking dump of a city. Kind of fitting that the card flat out stinks as well. At least we are coordinating if you will. It would be a damn shame to put on a hell of a show for a waste of a community. Monday night these unworthy assholes that call Billings home will pile into an arena, if they even have something we can call an arena. Maybe it's a bingo hall, community center, or banquet room. None the less we are putting on a show for people who don't deserve it, and wouldn't you know three men compete for something they don't deserve either. A chance to face me? Please I duck no man, it's not that hard to be booked across the ring from me. I have no idea why they need to compete. If any one of them simply asked for a shot like Young Mannie did, I would oblige in the same manor.
I turn toward the empty seats of this college stadium and look to my right.
Lively: That is not the only injustice coming to light Monday, I once again am booked in a tag team match.
I squeeze my fists in frustration at the thought of this booking.
Lively: So it is, and so shall it be. Some Vincent Pennington is set to be my partner. This guy could be a skillful mechanic, know how to drive cars fast and furiously for all I know, or care. I just hope somewhere in his life he learned how to throw a punch. As for the rest of this match I'm really unsure about this next part...
I scratch my head.
Lively: Streets Wilson? What year is this? I mean I did suffer a tragic motorcycle accident that sidelined me for two years, right? Maybe I am back in the Golden days of APW. Maybe Sabur's midget named after his private parts will come running out, or better yet we could have a wedding headline a PPV. Let's just kick the gas up a bit, hit eighty eight miles an hour and go back in time and say we have a cross dressing world champion who brings back people from the dead.
I sigh with disgust and confusion. Sabur chuckles briefly at the Mention of Doctor Phate.
Lively: If you were a fan of APW back in the day you understand my point, if not, fuck you just pretend you do and try to keep up. Streets Wilson , I honestly didn't think I would see that name hit the booking sheet ever again. Yet here we are, scheduled to face off inside MY ring. Let me tell you something Daniel Son, Mr. Miyagi is dead...and I'm the man who killed him. The media tried to spin the event of his demise as natural causes. The truth of the matter is like a mother fucking ninja I snuck into his bed room...
Sabur glares toward me with concern as to what I'm implying. Tommy Bartlett is lost in his own psychotic delusions. I don't even acknowledge them and just continue on.
Lively: I David Caradine'd that son of a bitch.
Sabur: WHOA!!!
Lively: Whoa, what?
Sabur: David Caradine hung himself dressed in lingerie, while attempting to jerk his meat missile.
Lively: And...
Sabur: And you are basically saying that you crept into Mr. Miyagi's bedroom, dressed him in lingerie, choked him out while you pleasured him with your hand!!!
Lively: Ok...so maybe I didn't David Caradine him, Maybe I Casey Anthony'd that mother fucker.
Sabur: So you bashed his head in, stuffed him in your trunk and drove around for three weeks with his body rotting while you cashed bad checks and partied like a real slut?
Lively: No that didn't happen either, all that matters is Miyagi is dead, because of me. Let's not get into fucking semantics. The point is his hokey poke crane kick bullshit is similar to that horse shit fighting style Streets Wilson's worships like a Shaolin cock muncher. Miyagi didn't stand a chance opposite the JESUS and neither does Wilson. He does deserve congrats on his martial arts skills. I'm sure his parents are happy the money they spent got him enough belts, he never has to worry about his pants falling down. They surely are proud that he can whip some nun chucks around his neck and break balsa wood with his devastating power, so can a toddler ok, you aren't a bad ass.
Sabur snickers at my jab toward those senseless parents that use karate as a babysitter, and actually expect that their kid can do something that resembles fighting after thousands of dollars spent and a wall full of wool belts.
Lively: Listen Streets your springtime pin wheel kick, or shogun cartwheel spinning back elbow plancha might be devastating at Billy Banks Tae Bo studio, but Monday night it will earn you a reality check and a swift boot to the balls. So consider this my welcome back to my friend and the ass whipping I dish you up on my show as the present.
I take a deep breath after spitting hot fire as if my name was Dylon. The three best rappers alive, I would say Dylon, Dylon, and Dylon. It's draining being this amazing so I grab my balls to get energized by their greatness and move onto the next person I am to target.
Lively: Now, to your partner the Queen of North America, Carmen Collins...
Sabur: Ahhh bro. That's not his name.
Lively: My bad it's a dude, Ryan Harris...
Sabur smiles and interrupts me again.
Sabur: That's not it either.
Lively: It's just that they all seem so similar, it's hard for my to keep it straight. I mean they really seem to be carbon copies. You know tracing paper products of one another.
Nothing but smiles from my big friend as I stick the knife in my opponents ribs figuratively speaking. Now for the twist. Everyone knows you twist the blade to make an impact.
Lively: Listen Ryan Collins, at least I think thats what your name is. First I don't care if you are Carmen Riveria and glued on a pair of balls trying to pass as a dude to make it in a mans world. Maybe it's the other way around, you were first a dude that lopped of your goods, grew your hair out and jumped aboard the Meltdown roster. That failed attempt left you missing your dangly dates so you have decided to drop the drag queen act, stuff an athletic sock in your jeans and give it another go as Broey Lawrence. Balls or no balls, male or female, I'm going whip the personality change right out of your ass, pussy!!!
I get another weird look from my long time comrade in this sport. I have lost Sabur in my senseless rant, which undoubtedly means I have completely lost those watching around the globe. For fuck sakes I'm I that random?
Sabur: Bro what the hell are you talking about?
Lively: I just thought that he was she, or he was her that is him...
Sabur: You lost me...is any of that none sense even humanly possible.
Lively: I do that from time to time, and I guess not. Anyways, Collins, you waltz in here with your smug attitude, your dopey smirk, and your hands out like your are owed something. Monday night I will surely fill those paws for with my manly balls. Then you will know what a real set feels like, you will have an idea what it is like to be proud of your apple bag. To have something so bad ass swing between your legs it motivates you to the path of righteousness, leads you to the highest pinnacle where fragile fucks like your self let your ego get bruised and you gasp for air.
My large muscle bound friend pats me on the shoulder.
Sabur: Uh you gone off the deep end Mike, are you drinking Jerry's beer again
Lively: Fuck that...straight and narrow pal. This fucking dick lick waltzes into my company, with his shitty ego and a dopey nickname.
Sabur: Sounds familiar...kind of like you.
Lively: My ego was well deserved, and The Hottest Shit Going, what was wrong with that?
Sabur: Nothing I guess it was perfect, I also love how it has transitioned into about a hundred other names..
Lively: Why are we talking about me? Listen Instant Classic...you will be classically trained in balancing my balls on your face. I'm breaking out the famous Michael Lively Roman Solider Helmet Pin for this match...
Sabur: Shut up, no you aren't...
Lively: Yep, I'm going to lay my dick on the bridge of his nose while the ref counts to three.
Sabur: I would love to see that happen.
Lively: I bet you would...
Sabur: Whoa, not that I want to see your dick I just...you know what fuck off.
I just smile toward the Irish Hammer knowing I can toss the gay jabs toward his asshole as well. Ooops that really sounded like I wished to plunge into his chocolate choo-choo train...
Sabur: Bro, you are talking a lot of shit...it is a tag match and your record with those isn't stellar.
Lively: Yeah only when I am randomly paired up with people due to lack of booking talent. Monday fits that criteria so who knows. Listen say Monday night goes sideways in the tag match...it will just be two more assholes thinking their deserve the title belt that I hold over all their heads. Two more names on a list that I simply will piss on when it's printed. You think I care about winning this match, it means jack shit. It's like that chapter in a book that you think, this son of a bitch just added these twenty pages to hit his four hundred page quota for a publisher.
Sabur shrugs his shoulders at my lack of concern.
Lively: Listen, Monday night...I have an agenda, and the two of you know what that is. It has nothing to do with tag team prestige. Tom Hanks lone friend Wilson, and Syked out Carmen Collins can both eat the dick cause that what I'm serving at Michael Lively's Cafe of Zero Fucks To Give. At the end of the day...I hope that sackless GM would make the match at One Night In Hell the people truly deserve, the match that I seem to be begging for...Michael Lively...versus all of MELTDOWN for the North American title.
Sabur and Tommy Bartlett both light up with interest in my crazy challenge. The mention of gold, or a simple opportunity to grab some brings out the lust in any man. We are gold diggers by nature, it's what drives us in this sport.
Lively: At the end of the day, when I look in the mirror I have no need to ask Mirror, Mirror on the wall...because I know my balls are biggest of them all. Monday night I swing those bitches all over that show. I leave gobs of my greatness spilled around that arena like a peep show floor on a Friday night. Fair warning to all, keep your legs shut and your mouths closed!!! My seed it potent!!!
With that the camera shuts off. I put my sunglasses back on my head, and know tonight I can rest peacefully in numerous facts. I am scared of no man, I'm an outrageous innovator, and I simply am first at so many things. First to cut promo's, first to step up to the plate when this company needs a franchise player. I was the first man to achieve Grand Slam Championship status...which reminds me. Jason Kash...what should I think of next in my quest to rattle his cage. He is the only man that I could consider competition in this race for the Holy Grail.
My eyes flicker to life and my pupils are overwhelmed with light. A numbness has overtaken my body as I lay still briefly trying to gather my thoughts. I move my right hand as my body begins to tingle. The eerie silence slowly fades as the sound of rushing water fills my ears. I an unaware of my surrounds momentarily then the last memory I had fills my thought process. I roll to my side feeling like a bachelor that just awoke from a late drunken stupor unsure why I feel pain. The North American title slides of my chest as I clutch my head trying to gain relief. A ref leans down asking if I'm ok, I simply pay him no mind as I grab my symbolic crown and roll out of the ring with it in my grasp. I start my walk of shame up the ramp trying to drown out the APW faithful as the revel in my agony.
Some men may suffocated with embarrassment, or over taken with disappointment. I have been in this game long enough to know that every path in this bitch has a winding road. Often times we stay on the path, while on rare occasions gentlemen like Krunk and Michael Stromboli don their offload tires trying to bypass curved pavement in hopes to get a straight shot. I would offer up advice to these men but this is the path they chose. They will learn in time a dip passed over here only leads to nasty bumps further down the road. We will see if they have the suspension to handle course.
Lost in my thoughts I end up back in my locker room. I stare at the door momentarily as the noise inside can be heard. You may be wondering my mental state in this instance. I'm a savvy son of a bitch and tonight I simply got caught slipping. It happens and it you think anything different then I suggest you turn in your boots, sell off your tights, and return you Rey Mysterio starter mask because wrestling might not be your gig. On this night Krunk stepped up to the plate. I shrugged him off as if he were just some member of the ring crew filling a spot because Mannie bitched out. Stromboli did the same and ended up on the losing end of this nights payroll as well. lost. He didn't waste a moment to stamp his Joe Pesci sized boot across my dome piece in what I'm sure he hopes was a message sent. So back to my mind set, congrats to both men, even though neither one of those rat bastards will ever hear it come from my lips. All they will simply know is there is hell to be paid. I kick the door to my locker room open to find Jerry O'Harrow chugging a beer. Chubs was dancing to music while The Irish Hammer had his nose buried in a Hunger Games Book.
Lively: What the fuck? I'm getting my ass stomped out like a jail house snitch, and the man I pay to watch my back...is back here reading God Damn Mocking Jay!!!!
I throw my title on a chair as Chubs cuts off the iPod. Sabur slams the book shut and leans back in the chair like a disgusted teenager really unenthused by the scolding his parent is putting forth.
Sabur: Maybe...I thought your boy Bartlett had it covered!!!
Lively: Bartlett? He clearly fucking dropped the ball too, didn't he. You are all pissed off because I brought him in? I wouldn't be surprised if you left me out there on purpose.
Sabur shoots me a slight grin as if I touched on the truth. This action ignites my fury and I fly across the room and slap the book out of his hand. The big man quickly stands from his folding chair looking down at me. The veins in his neck bulge as his nostrils flare. Jerry O'Harrow stops drinking his beer and just stares on like a middle schooler waiting for a fight to break loose in the hallway. Sadly there will be no fight. I know as long as I don't lay a violent hand on my Human Wrecking Machine he will simply contain his inner pink Hulk, and all this will be is a simple stare down.
Lively: Some cock sucking Italian douche canoe felt he could stomp his way into the title picture tonight. He laid boots to the JESUS. I vaguely remember something about an eye for an eye being written in MY book!!!
Sabur's face forms a smile with a devious look lit in his eyes, because he knows that our beef is settled for the moment. He also realizes my egotistical, yet off the script mind has something cooked up.
September 15th, 2012
My heart beats with the blood of a champion. I have always been one showered with gold, a recipient of accolades fit for a king, greatness just rains upon me. I set out to simply just change the face of Meltdown so it isn't looked down upon, or violated like a scantly clad woman that woke up in a pile of vomit with a GHB headache, and panties stuck to the crack of her ass via some man made Elmer's glue. I wanted to bring this brand a level of respect, give it a sense of pride so that people wouldn't look for their stepping stone out the door. Wouldn't you know in my simple expedition to lead this place to the promise land, I added a title to my collection. Now the door in and out of Meltdown has a detour that leads straight to Mount Zion. Atop this glorious mountain sits the Dastardly Deity, Your JESUS. This Monday Commissioner Gordon's half wit cousin Johnny Diamond has turned on the Lively signal. I will step down from my Godly throne, hop in the Lively-mobile and drive that bitch into the Big Sky country. I once again put on a seminar on what perfection is.
I walk from a dark tunnel and step out on to fresh cut grass. I make my way across the green plush toward center field as it is now clear I am in a football stadium. Followed by Sabur and Tommy Bartlett we stand in formation as I cut loose.
Lively: Missoula Montana, not too far from Billings, but just far enough for the complete stench of that shit hole not to pollute my nostrils. This is the home of the Grizzlies, the one college in this state that can actually win a football game. Unlike that second rate community college in Billings.
Dressed in jeans and a red "In Lively We Trust" t-shirt. Like usual my eyes covered by sunglasses until I remove them and place them on my forehead.
Lively: This Monday, Meltdown takes place in a fucking dump of a city. Kind of fitting that the card flat out stinks as well. At least we are coordinating if you will. It would be a damn shame to put on a hell of a show for a waste of a community. Monday night these unworthy assholes that call Billings home will pile into an arena, if they even have something we can call an arena. Maybe it's a bingo hall, community center, or banquet room. None the less we are putting on a show for people who don't deserve it, and wouldn't you know three men compete for something they don't deserve either. A chance to face me? Please I duck no man, it's not that hard to be booked across the ring from me. I have no idea why they need to compete. If any one of them simply asked for a shot like Young Mannie did, I would oblige in the same manor.
I turn toward the empty seats of this college stadium and look to my right.
Lively: That is not the only injustice coming to light Monday, I once again am booked in a tag team match.
I squeeze my fists in frustration at the thought of this booking.
Lively: So it is, and so shall it be. Some Vincent Pennington is set to be my partner. This guy could be a skillful mechanic, know how to drive cars fast and furiously for all I know, or care. I just hope somewhere in his life he learned how to throw a punch. As for the rest of this match I'm really unsure about this next part...
I scratch my head.
Lively: Streets Wilson? What year is this? I mean I did suffer a tragic motorcycle accident that sidelined me for two years, right? Maybe I am back in the Golden days of APW. Maybe Sabur's midget named after his private parts will come running out, or better yet we could have a wedding headline a PPV. Let's just kick the gas up a bit, hit eighty eight miles an hour and go back in time and say we have a cross dressing world champion who brings back people from the dead.
I sigh with disgust and confusion. Sabur chuckles briefly at the Mention of Doctor Phate.
Lively: If you were a fan of APW back in the day you understand my point, if not, fuck you just pretend you do and try to keep up. Streets Wilson , I honestly didn't think I would see that name hit the booking sheet ever again. Yet here we are, scheduled to face off inside MY ring. Let me tell you something Daniel Son, Mr. Miyagi is dead...and I'm the man who killed him. The media tried to spin the event of his demise as natural causes. The truth of the matter is like a mother fucking ninja I snuck into his bed room...
Sabur glares toward me with concern as to what I'm implying. Tommy Bartlett is lost in his own psychotic delusions. I don't even acknowledge them and just continue on.
Lively: I David Caradine'd that son of a bitch.
Sabur: WHOA!!!
Lively: Whoa, what?
Sabur: David Caradine hung himself dressed in lingerie, while attempting to jerk his meat missile.
Lively: And...
Sabur: And you are basically saying that you crept into Mr. Miyagi's bedroom, dressed him in lingerie, choked him out while you pleasured him with your hand!!!
Lively: Ok...so maybe I didn't David Caradine him, Maybe I Casey Anthony'd that mother fucker.
Sabur: So you bashed his head in, stuffed him in your trunk and drove around for three weeks with his body rotting while you cashed bad checks and partied like a real slut?
Lively: No that didn't happen either, all that matters is Miyagi is dead, because of me. Let's not get into fucking semantics. The point is his hokey poke crane kick bullshit is similar to that horse shit fighting style Streets Wilson's worships like a Shaolin cock muncher. Miyagi didn't stand a chance opposite the JESUS and neither does Wilson. He does deserve congrats on his martial arts skills. I'm sure his parents are happy the money they spent got him enough belts, he never has to worry about his pants falling down. They surely are proud that he can whip some nun chucks around his neck and break balsa wood with his devastating power, so can a toddler ok, you aren't a bad ass.
Sabur snickers at my jab toward those senseless parents that use karate as a babysitter, and actually expect that their kid can do something that resembles fighting after thousands of dollars spent and a wall full of wool belts.
Lively: Listen Streets your springtime pin wheel kick, or shogun cartwheel spinning back elbow plancha might be devastating at Billy Banks Tae Bo studio, but Monday night it will earn you a reality check and a swift boot to the balls. So consider this my welcome back to my friend and the ass whipping I dish you up on my show as the present.
I take a deep breath after spitting hot fire as if my name was Dylon. The three best rappers alive, I would say Dylon, Dylon, and Dylon. It's draining being this amazing so I grab my balls to get energized by their greatness and move onto the next person I am to target.
Lively: Now, to your partner the Queen of North America, Carmen Collins...
Sabur: Ahhh bro. That's not his name.
Lively: My bad it's a dude, Ryan Harris...
Sabur smiles and interrupts me again.
Sabur: That's not it either.
Lively: It's just that they all seem so similar, it's hard for my to keep it straight. I mean they really seem to be carbon copies. You know tracing paper products of one another.
Nothing but smiles from my big friend as I stick the knife in my opponents ribs figuratively speaking. Now for the twist. Everyone knows you twist the blade to make an impact.
Lively: Listen Ryan Collins, at least I think thats what your name is. First I don't care if you are Carmen Riveria and glued on a pair of balls trying to pass as a dude to make it in a mans world. Maybe it's the other way around, you were first a dude that lopped of your goods, grew your hair out and jumped aboard the Meltdown roster. That failed attempt left you missing your dangly dates so you have decided to drop the drag queen act, stuff an athletic sock in your jeans and give it another go as Broey Lawrence. Balls or no balls, male or female, I'm going whip the personality change right out of your ass, pussy!!!
I get another weird look from my long time comrade in this sport. I have lost Sabur in my senseless rant, which undoubtedly means I have completely lost those watching around the globe. For fuck sakes I'm I that random?
Sabur: Bro what the hell are you talking about?
Lively: I just thought that he was she, or he was her that is him...
Sabur: You lost me...is any of that none sense even humanly possible.
Lively: I do that from time to time, and I guess not. Anyways, Collins, you waltz in here with your smug attitude, your dopey smirk, and your hands out like your are owed something. Monday night I will surely fill those paws for with my manly balls. Then you will know what a real set feels like, you will have an idea what it is like to be proud of your apple bag. To have something so bad ass swing between your legs it motivates you to the path of righteousness, leads you to the highest pinnacle where fragile fucks like your self let your ego get bruised and you gasp for air.
My large muscle bound friend pats me on the shoulder.
Sabur: Uh you gone off the deep end Mike, are you drinking Jerry's beer again
Lively: Fuck that...straight and narrow pal. This fucking dick lick waltzes into my company, with his shitty ego and a dopey nickname.
Sabur: Sounds familiar...kind of like you.
Lively: My ego was well deserved, and The Hottest Shit Going, what was wrong with that?
Sabur: Nothing I guess it was perfect, I also love how it has transitioned into about a hundred other names..
Lively: Why are we talking about me? Listen Instant Classic...you will be classically trained in balancing my balls on your face. I'm breaking out the famous Michael Lively Roman Solider Helmet Pin for this match...
Sabur: Shut up, no you aren't...
Lively: Yep, I'm going to lay my dick on the bridge of his nose while the ref counts to three.
Sabur: I would love to see that happen.
Lively: I bet you would...
Sabur: Whoa, not that I want to see your dick I just...you know what fuck off.
I just smile toward the Irish Hammer knowing I can toss the gay jabs toward his asshole as well. Ooops that really sounded like I wished to plunge into his chocolate choo-choo train...
Sabur: Bro, you are talking a lot of shit...it is a tag match and your record with those isn't stellar.
Lively: Yeah only when I am randomly paired up with people due to lack of booking talent. Monday fits that criteria so who knows. Listen say Monday night goes sideways in the tag match...it will just be two more assholes thinking their deserve the title belt that I hold over all their heads. Two more names on a list that I simply will piss on when it's printed. You think I care about winning this match, it means jack shit. It's like that chapter in a book that you think, this son of a bitch just added these twenty pages to hit his four hundred page quota for a publisher.
Sabur shrugs his shoulders at my lack of concern.
Lively: Listen, Monday night...I have an agenda, and the two of you know what that is. It has nothing to do with tag team prestige. Tom Hanks lone friend Wilson, and Syked out Carmen Collins can both eat the dick cause that what I'm serving at Michael Lively's Cafe of Zero Fucks To Give. At the end of the day...I hope that sackless GM would make the match at One Night In Hell the people truly deserve, the match that I seem to be begging for...Michael Lively...versus all of MELTDOWN for the North American title.
Sabur and Tommy Bartlett both light up with interest in my crazy challenge. The mention of gold, or a simple opportunity to grab some brings out the lust in any man. We are gold diggers by nature, it's what drives us in this sport.
Lively: At the end of the day, when I look in the mirror I have no need to ask Mirror, Mirror on the wall...because I know my balls are biggest of them all. Monday night I swing those bitches all over that show. I leave gobs of my greatness spilled around that arena like a peep show floor on a Friday night. Fair warning to all, keep your legs shut and your mouths closed!!! My seed it potent!!!
With that the camera shuts off. I put my sunglasses back on my head, and know tonight I can rest peacefully in numerous facts. I am scared of no man, I'm an outrageous innovator, and I simply am first at so many things. First to cut promo's, first to step up to the plate when this company needs a franchise player. I was the first man to achieve Grand Slam Championship status...which reminds me. Jason Kash...what should I think of next in my quest to rattle his cage. He is the only man that I could consider competition in this race for the Holy Grail.
