Post by Tommy Bartlett on Sept 14, 2012 19:37:00 GMT -4
By The Numbers...
September 15th, 2012 Billings, Montana
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett is glad to be back in the confines of the arena in Billings, Montana... back to the task at hand. As much as Tommy Bartlett had loved the energies of being outdoors at that football stadium... feeling the "psychotic delusions" as some might call them... he needed to focus. Last week's Monday Night Meltdown hadn't gone as planned. The Crippler had meant for the match to be a springboard to greater things... instead he was ushered out of the ring to someone else's entrance music. See, it wasn't losing the match that bothered Tommy Bartlett... he really could've cared less about getting his hand raised... winning or losing never really had any bearing on his mission for that night. His goal was to make a statement and he still hadn't gotten over how he somehow had failed to break either of his opponents. He had planned to leave them at the very least without the ability to eat solid foods for a few weeks. He wanted to make them both question their chosen line of work. Tommy Bartlett wanted to retire two men before their careers before then ever even had time to get off the ground in APW. But, instead, "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett had, as The JESUS most eloquently put it "clearly dropped the fucking ball."
And that just wasn't acceptable... he had a reputation to create...
The scene now takes place in their little group's dressing room... the usual motley crew of assholes crowds around the APW North American Champion, Michael Lively... helping psyche him up for his match in two nights a good good little flock of coattails riding jackasses... Chubbs, the man with the camera... Jerry O'Morrow who was once a star but now was good for little else besides holding The JESUS's microphone and driving monsters around to jobs.... the biggest disappointment here, "The Irish Hammer" Sabur... that "Human Wrecking Machine"'s 15 minutes of fame had come and gone. Once, he was a Genetic Freak and the APW World Heavyweight Champion... now he was just another of Lively's Lackeys. But this story isn't about them... this is about the blue chipper, "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett who stands away from The JESUS and his hangers-on. He stands, watching the video that he had to fuck a mailroom girl to get his hands on.... the lost footage from last week's promo... his rendesvous with Jessica. Tommy can't help but lick his lips as he watches himself on screen licking Jessica's cheek as she cowers in fear... the taste of his terror. He didn't hurt the poor girl of course... what kind of beast do you think he is?
The APW North American Champion steps up beside him, watching the video for a moment and then looking up at his new charge with morbid curiosity.
Michael Lively: What's going through your mind, Bartlett? Are you ready for this week?
The Crippler's eyes don't leave the monitor, his lips barely moving as he speaks... the flicker of the screen reflecting off Bartlett's gunmetal grey eyes in a way that makes him look even more like something out of a Clive Barker film.
Tommy Bartlett: Almost... Y'know, I was thinking of being lazy this week since I have so much on my plate for Monday Night. I was just gonna air the footage of my encounter with Jessica Lodge and call it a night. But I can't... because Ace Andrews doesn't understand yet. He needs to go to a different place and really find a dark, vicious part of him if he wants to be able to walk when our match is over... Its no DQ...
His face suddenly turns towards his mentor and Michael Lively can see that sick smile that makes The Crippler's visage so alien-looking.
Bartlett: That means I don't have to hold anything back.
Tommy shoots out a lean, muscular, monkey-like arm and shuts the monitor off in the middle of one of Jessica Lodge's outraged screams with a quickness that you'd never expect from a competitior his size. He turns to leave without further word but his the words of The JESUS stop him in his tracks.
Lively: Where are you going now? Do I want to know?
Chubbs's camera shot catches the mammoth back of Tommy Bartlett... his voice responding though he doesn't turn... like he couldn't be bothered with a wasted movement.
Bartlett: To pick a fight... wanna come?
The APW North American Champion turns and snaps his fingers for Sabur, rousing him out of almost finishing the latest chapter of The Hunger Games.
Lively: No, I have more important things to do but Chubbs and Sabur will go with you. Just to make sure you're not going to do anything to get yourself arrested before Meltdown... and to capture it on film if you do.
The Irish Hammer rolls his eyes and groans like a petulant teenager but doesn't complain as he places his bookmark and skulks over to flank Bartlett. The JESUS smirks and claps Sabur on the back.
Lively: Make me proud, boys.
But Tommy Bartlett is already halfway to Ace Andrews's dressing room and his appointment with fate.
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Chubbs's choppy camera feed picks up in a generic corridor of the MetraPark Arena in Billings, Montana. Besides, Chubbs huffing and puffing to keep up with The Crippler, Tommy Bartlett is alone. Sabur is nowhere in sight... maybe he decided he didn't have the stomach for what could be a repeat of the incident at Young Mannie's house. He brings up a fist bigger than "Mr 420"'s head and raps on a door, whistling "Blessed Symphony" by The Verve as he waits patiently. Just as Tommy raises his fist to knock again, the door opens and all Jessica Lodge sees is The Crippler with a raised fist. In a flash, the personall assistant is across the room, putting a couch between her and this monster as a shield.
Jessica Lodge: Stay the fuck away from me, Sicko!!! I'll call security!!!
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett steps forward, his 7 ft, 350 lb frame taking up the entire doorway and eclipsing any outside light.
Bartlett: Ooo... please.... Don't threaten me with a good time... Tell them to bring the really big tasers... I love those!!!
Jessica Lodge cringes back from the smile that follows that statement, trying to sound brave.
Jessica Lodge: What the hell do you want from me?! I passed along your message! Frankly, Mr Andrews wasn't impressed.
Bartlett: Y'know, that's the feeling I got... so I thought I'd come by and introduce myself personally to the Platinum Made Playboy....
The malice almost visibly dripping from Tommy Bartlett's lips makes Jessica Lodge shudder though her attitude remains defiant if not more than a little desperate-sounding.
Jessica: Yes! Ace will be back any minute so you'd better clear out! Do you know how many championships that man has held in various organizations?
The Crippler laughs at that though the sound doesn't have any amusement to it. Its almost condescending, like he's dealing with people of a lower intelligence.
Bartlett: I bet Ace Andrews isn't here... I bet he's at the General Manager's office trying to slither his way out of the No DQ stipulation on our match...
Suddenly a voice rings out followed by an even louder ringing in "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett's ears as a Steel Chair connects with his skull completely unprotected. The massive creature staggers backward like a dragon that's been hit in the nose with an arrow in a fantasy movie. A thinking man's performer, The Self Professed Platinum Made Playboy presses his advantage by swinging for the fences with the chair and connecting with a shot square in the face that would've made Hank Aaron proud. The impact sends the Crippler to the concrete in a spray of bone and blood as his nose shatters. Wiping some of the blood out of his eyes, Tommy can almost hear Ace Andrews's mind snap as he watches the guy pick up a nearby 13" TV monitor. The Billionaire Brawler raises it high over his head as he approaches the fallen monster, Jessica Lodge daring to come out of hiding and approach the doorway.
Ace Andrews: Time to do what I should've done last week when you attacked Jessica... put you out of your misery before you spin out of control...
But that doesn't happen, of course. You forget that Tommy Bartlett wasn't travelling alone. Or Ace's rage blinds him to this fact at least. From out of nowhere, which is surprising considering the size of this guy, comes The Irish Hammer. And never was that nickname more appropriate as Sabur drives a tree-trunk-sized Running Clothesline nearly through Ace Andrews's skull. Flying off his feet, the TV monitor tumbles through the Platinum Made Playboy's grasp, leaving it to hit the ground rather harmlessly next to Tommy's head... the impact going off with a cacophany considerable to the detonating of a small bomb as the picture tube explodes in a cloud of smoke. Jessica Lodge screams as Sabur pulls Ace back to his feet by his hair, shouldering him with a look of complete and utter disinterest as he hoists him up onto his vast shoulders amidst a snowshower of tiny twinkling glass shards. Seriously, no look of rage or aggression that should go along with a "Genetic Powerhouse" of this size. You can tell that Sabur has many other places he'd rather be and is only going through the motions because Michael Lively said so. Carrying out the plan that Tommy Bartlett had explained on their walk over here, The Irish Hammer swings Ace Andrews off of his shoulders and slamming his body into a nearby vending machine with a version of Brock Lesnar's F5 that Sabur used to call the House of Pain. Dazed and busted open at the forehead, The Corporate Cutthroat looks up and sees Johnny Knuckles's smiling, tootheless mug toppling down towards him as Sabur effortlessly upends a Donkey Punch Energy Drink dispensary onto the man with a crunching sound.
Sabur: There. I'm done. I don't want any part of your bullshit, Bartlett.
The Crippler smirks as The Irish Hammer exits and then turns his attention to Ace Andrews. LIke a cat, Tommy runs and pounces onto the top of the soda machine, perching there like a deranged vulture as the combined weight of the machine and Bartlett's own 350 lbs crushes down on Terry Marvin's little buddy with ribs bruising force.
Bartlett: Hi, Ace. I know we didn't get a chance to be formally introduced last week and I kinda feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I want to make sure we get all the misconceptions out of the way and you and I see eye to eye... that we're on the same level... I tried to warn you last week that getting in the ring with me would be a bad idea but you didn't seem to take me all that seriously.
Tommy Bartlett looks up and nods to some unseen person like he's answering a question from someone just off camera before turning back to Ace as he tries to struggle out from under the titanic weight. The look in The Crippler's eyes is wild and insane. He lisps slightly and sprays Andrews's face with little speckles of blood as he speaks through his broken nose.
Bartlett: Y'know, I was listeing to that Fort Minor tune that you use as your entrance music in the car earlier and it inspired me to bring about this little face-to-face meeting. I want to make sure that you understand that this Monday I will bring 100% pain.
This asshole smirks at that.
Bartlett: I bet I was one person you really wished wouldn't remember your name, huh? See... you and I are two different breeds and I'm really going to drive that fact home this Monday. See, I asked for this match to be No DQ so you could get a good taste for what the big times are really like, Ace. I promise, if you can someone pass this test and come out of our match with your vocal chords still intact, then you'll know that you can handle absolutely anything else that the Megastars of APW can throw at you because you'll never face a challenge quite like me.
"Crippler" Tommy Bartlett absent-mindedly licks his lips as he stares off into space for a moment, his mind apparently lost in Parts Unknown again but that moment is all Ace Andrews really needs. See, while Tommy Bartlett was waxing poetic like a fuckin' James Bond villain when he thinks he has 007 dead to rights, The Billionaire Brawler pulled his arms free of the vending machine. As The Crippler returns to the scene at hand and looks back down at his prey like a spider with a tied up fly, he only has a split-second to register Ace's fist flying at his face before he sees stars. This haymaker isn't alone either, Andrews peppers Bartlett with rights and lefts, each one carefully calculated and hitting their mark square in Tommy's badly broken nose. "Crippler" Tommy Bartlett utters a roar of pain and rage as The Platinum Made Playboy reaches up and grabs the back of Bartlett's head, smacking him face first into the vending machine. Tommy rolls off, dipping his fingers into the crimson mask and wiping blood away as Ace Andrews tries to squirm out from beneath the remaining weight of Johnny Knuckles's Donkey Punch. The Crippler scurries to his feet and picks up the Steel Chair that Ace brought into this equation earlier. Andrews never even sees it coming when Bartlett brings the unforgiving steel down on Ace's skull like he's squashing a fly with a rolled up newspaper. Tommy Bartlett wipes the blood out of his face looking annoyed and flicks it at the barely concious Ace Andrew's face before resuming his perch on the vending machine.
Bartlett: See, its not that simple, Ace? Though I can respect your fire and drive. But I'm going to be your fire extinguisher. See, this isn't going to be anything like last week's Meldown... except with the outcome of the match being the same for you... you'll still be winless in APW... but winning the match doesn't really mean anything. I could care less whether I'm victorious or not, I just want to clip your little climb to Overdrive off at the legs. I want to make sure you never get to join Terry Marvin's little rainbow coalition. You don't have me in a meager Triple Threat Match this time, Ace. That's going to make it tough for you... you won't have Ryan Collins as a buffer between you and the wolves. You won't be able to be sneaky and cost me the match like last time either. This time its going to have nothing to do with your brain power. Your analytical, tactical mind won't help you. This time you're going to have to run solely on instincts. You're going to have to bring yourself to a different place then you've ever before visited inside yourself if you want any hope of surviving this encounter. That should be your true goal, survival not victory. Because my goal is to make sure you never step foot in a wrestling ring again. You will be the first in a trail of bodies that I leave on my way to the APW World Heavyweight Championship over on Asylum. It'll be your only footnote in history... I promise you that.
Tommy Bartlett leans back onto his haunches, bouncing a few times before standing... most likely doing more damage to Ace Andrews's already fucked up ribs. Tommy's kinda going for some internal bleeding. What? He's an overacheiver! But otherwise, The Crippler stands up and motions for Chubbs to cut the camera, satisfied that his statement's been made as he walks away. But the camera remains on so that Chubbs can check the battery level. As this happens, Ace Andrews catches a second wind and suddenly explodes out from under the Donkey Punch vending machine and sprints for The Crippler, leaving a gore spattered trail behind as he chopblocks Bartlett's right knee out from under him. The old adage about how the bigger they are, the harder they fall proves true as Tommy Bartlett comes tumbling down like someone should yell, "Timber!". Jumping on Bartlett's back like a man possessed, blood dripping from his face (some of it even his), The Corporate Cutthroat hooks an arm around The Crippler's neck and locks in a Dragon Sleeper.
Ace: FUCK YOU, YOU RAVING LUNATIC!!! I'LL KILL YOU MONDAY!!!
After a few moments of flailing, the much bigger Tommy Bartlett struggles and gets a knee out from under him before showing off amazing strength by standing with his head cocked at an angle threatening to break his own neck. In desperation, The Crippler runs backwards and slams Ace Andrews into the wall, crushing him and nearly knocking himself out as the top of his head slams into the concrete and opens up a fresh wound to join his broken nose. Ace slumps to the floor, nearly spent and Bartlett shakes off the effect of the carotid choke the Platinum Made Playboy had him in. He props himself up against a catering table as paramedics rush past him to Andrews.
Bartlett: I'd bring every ace you have up your sleeve, Andrews. Shit, bring the whole damn deck. But bring your A-Game too or I'm going to eat you alive.
The Crippler's laughter echoes as Chubbs' s battery finally dies.
