Post by Phil Atken on Nov 10, 2012 17:33:22 GMT -4
We find Phil Atken once again in a very similar set environment from his last “one-to-one” discussion with you, the fine, beautiful and some may say sensual APW viewing audience. The fake fire remains on the floor, the table full is still dripping in spilt brandy and the man himself, your leader and visionary, in fact you may call him your Dear Leader, Phil Atken is sitting, slightly slouched down on his beautiful ergonomic chair placed ever so delicately at the side of the table. Phil is trying to push the remaining drips and draps on brandy back into his glass.
Phil realises the camera is in fact active and alert and quite possibly, it is recording his every move. He jumps up on his chair and gets his “serious man with serious views” face on.
Atken: You know, last time I sat here, on this chair, on this set, I promised you, my dearest fans, I promised you the world. I promised you a wind of change was about to blow through the dark and dusty APW corridors of power. I was on the cusp of becoming your champion, I was on the cusp of changing APW for the better. I was about to put an end to this horrible tale that APW has woven of brutality and violence and lead Asylum into a shining new dawn. A shining new dawn where men didn't swing chair, ladies didn't jump through tables and the mentally deficient didn't swing baseball bats. No, it was going to be a glorious day, a glorious shining bright day of a new tomorrow. I was quite looking forward to it, I must admit. I could almost picture it. In fact, if I'm honest with you fine fans, I had already started to picture it and let me assure you, it was wonderful. It was magnificent. It was splendiferous. APW had a future, Asylum had a future. We were going to become an industry leader and I was about to be the poster boy. The era of extreme was going to let out its death rattle and I was going to be the man to grab the shovel. We met a fork on the road though, didn't we my friends?
Atken's eyes almost become glazed over as he lets the scenario once again run through his head. He shudders a little and focusing back at the camera.
Atken: Now of course, no doubt you all saw One Night in Hell, I'm sure you were calling your local Pay Per View provider at first opportunity to see Phil Atken finally conquer his demons. You were spending your hard earned money to see me complete my year long journey in APW, you were literally throwing wads of cash at your television screen to witness my crowning achievement... and I disappointed you. I let you down. The moment that had been slowly building up to its epic and natural conclusion failed to be realised. It'd be like reading an Agatha Christie book where it turns out the butler didn't did it but rather it was Poirot himself, in terms of sheer minding blowing insanity. I get it, I do, I feel your pain. After all, I care so much about each and every one of you that your pain is my pain and boy did it feel like it was rushing in by the bucket load on that very Sunday evening. For that, I can only say one thing... I'm sorry. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
Phil gives a little pound of his chest near the heart region and as if to prove a level of sincerity, he makes a pained facial expression that could be closely described as “constipation”.
Atken: Yet, despite that pang on guilt I feel about letting you, the greatest fans in wrestling, down, I still can't help but question the prevailing attitude that has been allowed to linger, one that has branded and labeled me a loser on the same level as Keaton Saint, Michael Callahan, Johnny Rebel and Anthony Bailey. It's almost a fascinating insight into cognitive dissonance in real time. Those people who stood there and predicted me to be the Chamber's sacrificial lamb, the guy out of his depth, a man tossed into the deep end and about to drown. I go out there and prove them wrong, I end up in the match to the very last second, I have the World Heavyweight Championship within my grasp and only fall due to reasons I will explain in a moment and yet I'm just as bad as one of the hot tips of the match, Michael Callahan for example, who blew it big style. Big Willy Style some would even say. It's amazing the thought process that goes behind that call. That even by proving the naysaying class wrong, I'm still as bad as the very worst in the match. It legitimate breaks the rational thought side of my brain, it shatters it in two.
Phil is getting noticeably redder talking over the issue and take a quick snifter of his finest table brandy to calm his nerves.
Atken: It wasn't even just those who enjoy their little sideline snipes that I proved wrong. My wonderful friends within that chamber, they viewed your pal Phil in the exact same way. They snorted, they giggled and they tittered at the very idea I would have any impact on that faithful day. I must admit, it was satisfying to sit and see them all fall due to their own insipid egos. Callahan, Rebel, Saint, Bailey, the very men who couldn't even conceive the idea of a Phil Atken championship reign all crawled their broken asses out of the chamber as I stood there and watched them eat pin after pin. It was a satisfying experience, I must admit. Now, I'm not normally a schadenfreude kind of guy but I was willing to allow an exception for my Chamber compadres.
Phil's smile grows wider just thinking about their Chamber ejections.
Atken: That's where it all went to pot. I went into the chamber with a clear head, with a clear goal and a vision for the future. I knew my opponents were glory hounds, that they lusted after the gold for the allure of power not for any kind of ultimate purpose. They weren't on a journey, they hadn't gone through the pilgrimage, they just wanted a shiny trinket to hang up above the fireplace. I knew they would kill each other to get there... and I was right. They did. They all fell before me, not at all by my hand but by each others. Just like I promised, just like I knew they would. Sadly, that began to build pride in me and as I stood across the ring from dear Ms. Talfourd, as we realised that we were the only two left in the Chamber, I let the worst thing possible happen. I let the lust for gold get the better of me. No longer was I a collected man with a purpose, a message and vision for the future, I was just as bad as everyone else in that match. I wasn't the Phil Atken who wanted that belt to lead APW into a better tomorrow, I was Phil Atken the power whore, Phil Atken, a man like the rest and it cost me dearly. That pride that had consumed me came before the immediate fall and now we have a new World Heavyweight Champion in Sally Talfourd. I got all the way up to the last step then fell all the way down to the bottom of the stairs.
Atken: Still, I beat all the expectations people had for me. I over performed in the eyes of APW, so obviously I must be the first in line to test the limits of Mustang Sally. After all, Johnny Knuckles over-performed in their eyes at Survive and Conquer and got himself a Rasslemania Main Event. Anthony Bailey over performed as Tap Out Champion and ended up getting his chance at the big one. Normally Reggie likes to reward those who exceed expectations in the eyes of the beholder. Obviously it was my turn. I just had to sit back and wait for Dear Leader to give me the phone call that he had given those who came before me. So I flew back to my apartment in the US and waited. Dirk Dickwood sat in his office in London and waited. Every waking minute from Sunday night to Wednesday evening, we would stare at our phones waiting on that call. Waiting on the acknowledgment of my hard work, my dedication, my impressive, almost mind boggling, practically industry changing performance at One Night in Hell. That call never came, did it Dirk?
Dirk Dickwood pops his head out in front of the camera. Dirk's got a bluetooth strapped to his ear and appears to be flicking through a literal mountain of paperwork. Why anyone built that mountain is entirely questionable but rumour has it Hank had a quiet week.
Dickwood: It did not Phil. I did get a phone call from the General Manager though, later in the week.
Atken: To send his congratulations on my shocking underdog performance in the Extreme Elimination Chamber?
Dickwood: Not quite...
Atken: Oh well, that's curious. It seems like Reginald, for some reason hasn't given a man like myself the courtesy he has shown others in the past. I can't think why that would be. I'm sure he wouldn't be terrified at the idea of a man like me being champion, after all, it isn't like he has been nakedly profiteering by shoving his talent into incredibly unsafe matches all in the name of the almighty dollar...
Dickwood: I was as a shocked as you are Phil! Shocked to my very core. Never in all my years as a manager and agent to the stars, superstars and megastars have I ever seen such sheer negligence towards a proven commodity. Instead he asked me to inform you he was booking you... get this... I am not shitting you... in a seven man Table, Ladders and Chairs match for a chance to face Sally at Christmas Chaos.
Atken: QUELLE SURPRISE!
Phil throws his hands up in the air, and raises his eyebrows in complete and total “shock”. Dirk drops a single piece of paper in response to the development.
Atken: I mean, how could Reggie, he's a man who is known to reward those who exceed expectations and yet I have walked out and barely survived an Extreme Elimination Chamber only to thrown into another one of his precious car wrecks that have complete disregard for the bodily harm that is guaranteed to by inflicted upon his employees. If I was a more cynical man, I would say this match was more punishment than it was reward. However, I'm going to give Reggiecakes the benefit of the doubt. So Dirk, who are these other six successful souls that I am about to go to battle against in the name of the World Heavyweight Championship.
Dirk whips out a blackberry from his back pocket and begins to pound away at it.
Dickwood: Why Phil, that would be Slade Craven, Michael Callahan, Yarmouth, Keaton Saint, TJ and Jair Hopkins.
Atken: QUELLE SURPRISE!
Phil does the exact same gimmick, hands, eyebrows, you name it, it was raised. APART FROM THAT. You have a filthy mind, you know that. I know that. Let us never speak of it again, I would hate to have to call your parents and inform them.
Atken: Not a singer winner in the bunch. Turns out that my punishment theory is growing at an exception rate, soon it will elope us all.
Dickwood: That word doesn't mean what you think it means.
Atken: Hush now Dirk.
Phil jumps out of his seat and “gently” guides Dirk back off the set before returning to his chair based luxury.
Atken: It's curious, isn't it Atkenphiles. The men drawn together in this match. Now I don't want to be a Cynical Cynthia but it would seem to me given the kind of match we seem to have been forced to compete in and the competitors involved that Reginald is hoping to write off a contract or two by the end of it. I mean, I'm just being a realist here. My opponents no doubt see this as their big chance, a chance to go one on one with the World Heavyweight Champion and they will fight to the death to get there. That's because my opponent are, for the lack of a better word, morons. Reginald has dangled that Sally Talfourd carrot in front on them with the hopes that they get their one on one shot at the big one. Sure Saint and Callahan had their chance at the Chamber and flamed out in a magnificent manner but I'm sure they're already telling themselves that Christmas Chaos would be different. Spoilers boys, it wouldn't.
Sadly for Mssrs. Saint, Callahan, Craven, Hopkins, Mouth and J, Asylum already has a deserving Number One Contender, the match just doesn't have to take place. Phil Atken, that being me, I am clearly the man who could, can and will defeat Sally Talfourd at Christmas Chaos before she starts getting that smug look on her face again that you just want to smack. I mean really, sometimes when I close my eyes, all I picture is a giant mitt of a hand slapping her down. Jesus, if there's one thing I hate about seeing the belt around her waist it's that her unique brand of egotism has been validated. That she is the sun that APW revolves around, that she's doing it “for the fans”... PLEASE. Still, there's time for that battle. It's one I will very much enjoy. In fact, Dirk can you pencil in a Christmas Chaos training schedule for me? Get some Talfourd tapes, bribe her advisers, you know, the usual.
Dirk screams in from off screen.
Dickwood: I'm on it! Will the usual amount of...
Atken: NOT THE TIME DIRK. JESUS!
Phil “shoos” Dirk once more.
Atken: I mean, let's look at this match and the people in it from a rational and sensible view point shall we? After all, I know you Atkenphiles are the most rational on the wrestling spectrum.
First, Michael Callahan, who I must admit, I didn't see on the news on Tuesday evening which would indicate he's almost as big a failure in politics as he is in wrestling. He walked into One Night in Hell as the golden boy, the man labeled as Asylum's future and boy did he flame out in spectacular fashion. Now, APW wishes to allow a man who proved himself to be mentally unstable during the Extreme Elimination Chamber to battle his way to the top of a ladder without even a basic psych evaluation? Oh Jeff, you are just so you, aren't ya.
We move from the unbalanced to the unworthy. Craven and Saint, two people who, let's be honest, are damn carpetbaggers, jumping the sinking ship of Overdrive in the vain hope that they kind find a hint of relevance on Asylum. Saint already proved that his ship sailed some time ago, probably when Jeff made the big to-do about his contract signing because he's achieved shit all since then. One Night in Hell showed that you can carpetbag all you want, it won't bring you success and yet here Mr. Craven still fancies his chances of reviving his career. How about you go on a year long journey of redemption and get back to me.
Then let us not forget Jair and TJ. Ah boys, I did see the One Night in Hell replay and I could have sworn that both of you had yourself some title bouts. A chance to get your hand on some of that precious gold that I know you kids these days are so crazy about. Yet, I believe you both failed. Somehow, you seem to be getting rewarding for that failure to succeed and that fascinates me.
Of course, we can't forget Yarmouth. Actually can we? I'd really like to forget Yarmouth. I'd be surprised if he made it to the ring on Sunday, it's more likely he'll be found locked away in some closet with Raab.
Finally, you have me, a man who exceeded expectations, who overcame the odds and came a very close second in the Extreme Elimination Chamber. It almost reminds me of that Sesame Street song, “one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong.” I don't belong in the losers bracket and I damn well take offense that I am considered part of it. I will not stand for it. I will do something about it, but not in the ring, oh no, I'm not a damn barbarian.
Phil composes himself and leans in to the camera.
Atken: I hate to disappoint those of you hoping to see me in this Tables, Ladders and Chairs punishment farce. That's not what's going to go down on Sunday night. No, on Sunday night me and my advisers, my very expensive advisers, we're going to walk into the office of nice little Mr. Schmidt and make a very clear case about exactly WHY I should be the Number One Contender, why I'm naturally the first in line. We will lay it out very clearly and very explicitly for him and when we walk out his office, I will have my Christmas Chaos World Heavyweight Championship match contract. As for those stuck in that TLC match, I guess he can throw them a shot at some other knickknack. Maybe the Xtreme Title, after all if they're willing to battle it out in a match as brutal and barbaric as a TLC bout, that's what they deserve, more of the same. Endless matches that end in trips to the hospital. It's what they get for being the braying dogs to the APW meat grinder.
Phil realises the camera is in fact active and alert and quite possibly, it is recording his every move. He jumps up on his chair and gets his “serious man with serious views” face on.
Atken: You know, last time I sat here, on this chair, on this set, I promised you, my dearest fans, I promised you the world. I promised you a wind of change was about to blow through the dark and dusty APW corridors of power. I was on the cusp of becoming your champion, I was on the cusp of changing APW for the better. I was about to put an end to this horrible tale that APW has woven of brutality and violence and lead Asylum into a shining new dawn. A shining new dawn where men didn't swing chair, ladies didn't jump through tables and the mentally deficient didn't swing baseball bats. No, it was going to be a glorious day, a glorious shining bright day of a new tomorrow. I was quite looking forward to it, I must admit. I could almost picture it. In fact, if I'm honest with you fine fans, I had already started to picture it and let me assure you, it was wonderful. It was magnificent. It was splendiferous. APW had a future, Asylum had a future. We were going to become an industry leader and I was about to be the poster boy. The era of extreme was going to let out its death rattle and I was going to be the man to grab the shovel. We met a fork on the road though, didn't we my friends?
Atken's eyes almost become glazed over as he lets the scenario once again run through his head. He shudders a little and focusing back at the camera.
Atken: Now of course, no doubt you all saw One Night in Hell, I'm sure you were calling your local Pay Per View provider at first opportunity to see Phil Atken finally conquer his demons. You were spending your hard earned money to see me complete my year long journey in APW, you were literally throwing wads of cash at your television screen to witness my crowning achievement... and I disappointed you. I let you down. The moment that had been slowly building up to its epic and natural conclusion failed to be realised. It'd be like reading an Agatha Christie book where it turns out the butler didn't did it but rather it was Poirot himself, in terms of sheer minding blowing insanity. I get it, I do, I feel your pain. After all, I care so much about each and every one of you that your pain is my pain and boy did it feel like it was rushing in by the bucket load on that very Sunday evening. For that, I can only say one thing... I'm sorry. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
Phil gives a little pound of his chest near the heart region and as if to prove a level of sincerity, he makes a pained facial expression that could be closely described as “constipation”.
Atken: Yet, despite that pang on guilt I feel about letting you, the greatest fans in wrestling, down, I still can't help but question the prevailing attitude that has been allowed to linger, one that has branded and labeled me a loser on the same level as Keaton Saint, Michael Callahan, Johnny Rebel and Anthony Bailey. It's almost a fascinating insight into cognitive dissonance in real time. Those people who stood there and predicted me to be the Chamber's sacrificial lamb, the guy out of his depth, a man tossed into the deep end and about to drown. I go out there and prove them wrong, I end up in the match to the very last second, I have the World Heavyweight Championship within my grasp and only fall due to reasons I will explain in a moment and yet I'm just as bad as one of the hot tips of the match, Michael Callahan for example, who blew it big style. Big Willy Style some would even say. It's amazing the thought process that goes behind that call. That even by proving the naysaying class wrong, I'm still as bad as the very worst in the match. It legitimate breaks the rational thought side of my brain, it shatters it in two.
Phil is getting noticeably redder talking over the issue and take a quick snifter of his finest table brandy to calm his nerves.
Atken: It wasn't even just those who enjoy their little sideline snipes that I proved wrong. My wonderful friends within that chamber, they viewed your pal Phil in the exact same way. They snorted, they giggled and they tittered at the very idea I would have any impact on that faithful day. I must admit, it was satisfying to sit and see them all fall due to their own insipid egos. Callahan, Rebel, Saint, Bailey, the very men who couldn't even conceive the idea of a Phil Atken championship reign all crawled their broken asses out of the chamber as I stood there and watched them eat pin after pin. It was a satisfying experience, I must admit. Now, I'm not normally a schadenfreude kind of guy but I was willing to allow an exception for my Chamber compadres.
Phil's smile grows wider just thinking about their Chamber ejections.
Atken: That's where it all went to pot. I went into the chamber with a clear head, with a clear goal and a vision for the future. I knew my opponents were glory hounds, that they lusted after the gold for the allure of power not for any kind of ultimate purpose. They weren't on a journey, they hadn't gone through the pilgrimage, they just wanted a shiny trinket to hang up above the fireplace. I knew they would kill each other to get there... and I was right. They did. They all fell before me, not at all by my hand but by each others. Just like I promised, just like I knew they would. Sadly, that began to build pride in me and as I stood across the ring from dear Ms. Talfourd, as we realised that we were the only two left in the Chamber, I let the worst thing possible happen. I let the lust for gold get the better of me. No longer was I a collected man with a purpose, a message and vision for the future, I was just as bad as everyone else in that match. I wasn't the Phil Atken who wanted that belt to lead APW into a better tomorrow, I was Phil Atken the power whore, Phil Atken, a man like the rest and it cost me dearly. That pride that had consumed me came before the immediate fall and now we have a new World Heavyweight Champion in Sally Talfourd. I got all the way up to the last step then fell all the way down to the bottom of the stairs.
Atken: Still, I beat all the expectations people had for me. I over performed in the eyes of APW, so obviously I must be the first in line to test the limits of Mustang Sally. After all, Johnny Knuckles over-performed in their eyes at Survive and Conquer and got himself a Rasslemania Main Event. Anthony Bailey over performed as Tap Out Champion and ended up getting his chance at the big one. Normally Reggie likes to reward those who exceed expectations in the eyes of the beholder. Obviously it was my turn. I just had to sit back and wait for Dear Leader to give me the phone call that he had given those who came before me. So I flew back to my apartment in the US and waited. Dirk Dickwood sat in his office in London and waited. Every waking minute from Sunday night to Wednesday evening, we would stare at our phones waiting on that call. Waiting on the acknowledgment of my hard work, my dedication, my impressive, almost mind boggling, practically industry changing performance at One Night in Hell. That call never came, did it Dirk?
Dirk Dickwood pops his head out in front of the camera. Dirk's got a bluetooth strapped to his ear and appears to be flicking through a literal mountain of paperwork. Why anyone built that mountain is entirely questionable but rumour has it Hank had a quiet week.
Dickwood: It did not Phil. I did get a phone call from the General Manager though, later in the week.
Atken: To send his congratulations on my shocking underdog performance in the Extreme Elimination Chamber?
Dickwood: Not quite...
Atken: Oh well, that's curious. It seems like Reginald, for some reason hasn't given a man like myself the courtesy he has shown others in the past. I can't think why that would be. I'm sure he wouldn't be terrified at the idea of a man like me being champion, after all, it isn't like he has been nakedly profiteering by shoving his talent into incredibly unsafe matches all in the name of the almighty dollar...
Dickwood: I was as a shocked as you are Phil! Shocked to my very core. Never in all my years as a manager and agent to the stars, superstars and megastars have I ever seen such sheer negligence towards a proven commodity. Instead he asked me to inform you he was booking you... get this... I am not shitting you... in a seven man Table, Ladders and Chairs match for a chance to face Sally at Christmas Chaos.
Atken: QUELLE SURPRISE!
Phil throws his hands up in the air, and raises his eyebrows in complete and total “shock”. Dirk drops a single piece of paper in response to the development.
Atken: I mean, how could Reggie, he's a man who is known to reward those who exceed expectations and yet I have walked out and barely survived an Extreme Elimination Chamber only to thrown into another one of his precious car wrecks that have complete disregard for the bodily harm that is guaranteed to by inflicted upon his employees. If I was a more cynical man, I would say this match was more punishment than it was reward. However, I'm going to give Reggiecakes the benefit of the doubt. So Dirk, who are these other six successful souls that I am about to go to battle against in the name of the World Heavyweight Championship.
Dirk whips out a blackberry from his back pocket and begins to pound away at it.
Dickwood: Why Phil, that would be Slade Craven, Michael Callahan, Yarmouth, Keaton Saint, TJ and Jair Hopkins.
Atken: QUELLE SURPRISE!
Phil does the exact same gimmick, hands, eyebrows, you name it, it was raised. APART FROM THAT. You have a filthy mind, you know that. I know that. Let us never speak of it again, I would hate to have to call your parents and inform them.
Atken: Not a singer winner in the bunch. Turns out that my punishment theory is growing at an exception rate, soon it will elope us all.
Dickwood: That word doesn't mean what you think it means.
Atken: Hush now Dirk.
Phil jumps out of his seat and “gently” guides Dirk back off the set before returning to his chair based luxury.
Atken: It's curious, isn't it Atkenphiles. The men drawn together in this match. Now I don't want to be a Cynical Cynthia but it would seem to me given the kind of match we seem to have been forced to compete in and the competitors involved that Reginald is hoping to write off a contract or two by the end of it. I mean, I'm just being a realist here. My opponents no doubt see this as their big chance, a chance to go one on one with the World Heavyweight Champion and they will fight to the death to get there. That's because my opponent are, for the lack of a better word, morons. Reginald has dangled that Sally Talfourd carrot in front on them with the hopes that they get their one on one shot at the big one. Sure Saint and Callahan had their chance at the Chamber and flamed out in a magnificent manner but I'm sure they're already telling themselves that Christmas Chaos would be different. Spoilers boys, it wouldn't.
Sadly for Mssrs. Saint, Callahan, Craven, Hopkins, Mouth and J, Asylum already has a deserving Number One Contender, the match just doesn't have to take place. Phil Atken, that being me, I am clearly the man who could, can and will defeat Sally Talfourd at Christmas Chaos before she starts getting that smug look on her face again that you just want to smack. I mean really, sometimes when I close my eyes, all I picture is a giant mitt of a hand slapping her down. Jesus, if there's one thing I hate about seeing the belt around her waist it's that her unique brand of egotism has been validated. That she is the sun that APW revolves around, that she's doing it “for the fans”... PLEASE. Still, there's time for that battle. It's one I will very much enjoy. In fact, Dirk can you pencil in a Christmas Chaos training schedule for me? Get some Talfourd tapes, bribe her advisers, you know, the usual.
Dirk screams in from off screen.
Dickwood: I'm on it! Will the usual amount of...
Atken: NOT THE TIME DIRK. JESUS!
Phil “shoos” Dirk once more.
Atken: I mean, let's look at this match and the people in it from a rational and sensible view point shall we? After all, I know you Atkenphiles are the most rational on the wrestling spectrum.
First, Michael Callahan, who I must admit, I didn't see on the news on Tuesday evening which would indicate he's almost as big a failure in politics as he is in wrestling. He walked into One Night in Hell as the golden boy, the man labeled as Asylum's future and boy did he flame out in spectacular fashion. Now, APW wishes to allow a man who proved himself to be mentally unstable during the Extreme Elimination Chamber to battle his way to the top of a ladder without even a basic psych evaluation? Oh Jeff, you are just so you, aren't ya.
We move from the unbalanced to the unworthy. Craven and Saint, two people who, let's be honest, are damn carpetbaggers, jumping the sinking ship of Overdrive in the vain hope that they kind find a hint of relevance on Asylum. Saint already proved that his ship sailed some time ago, probably when Jeff made the big to-do about his contract signing because he's achieved shit all since then. One Night in Hell showed that you can carpetbag all you want, it won't bring you success and yet here Mr. Craven still fancies his chances of reviving his career. How about you go on a year long journey of redemption and get back to me.
Then let us not forget Jair and TJ. Ah boys, I did see the One Night in Hell replay and I could have sworn that both of you had yourself some title bouts. A chance to get your hand on some of that precious gold that I know you kids these days are so crazy about. Yet, I believe you both failed. Somehow, you seem to be getting rewarding for that failure to succeed and that fascinates me.
Of course, we can't forget Yarmouth. Actually can we? I'd really like to forget Yarmouth. I'd be surprised if he made it to the ring on Sunday, it's more likely he'll be found locked away in some closet with Raab.
Finally, you have me, a man who exceeded expectations, who overcame the odds and came a very close second in the Extreme Elimination Chamber. It almost reminds me of that Sesame Street song, “one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong.” I don't belong in the losers bracket and I damn well take offense that I am considered part of it. I will not stand for it. I will do something about it, but not in the ring, oh no, I'm not a damn barbarian.
Phil composes himself and leans in to the camera.
Atken: I hate to disappoint those of you hoping to see me in this Tables, Ladders and Chairs punishment farce. That's not what's going to go down on Sunday night. No, on Sunday night me and my advisers, my very expensive advisers, we're going to walk into the office of nice little Mr. Schmidt and make a very clear case about exactly WHY I should be the Number One Contender, why I'm naturally the first in line. We will lay it out very clearly and very explicitly for him and when we walk out his office, I will have my Christmas Chaos World Heavyweight Championship match contract. As for those stuck in that TLC match, I guess he can throw them a shot at some other knickknack. Maybe the Xtreme Title, after all if they're willing to battle it out in a match as brutal and barbaric as a TLC bout, that's what they deserve, more of the same. Endless matches that end in trips to the hospital. It's what they get for being the braying dogs to the APW meat grinder.
