Post by Varga Zodd on Feb 9, 2008 16:52:56 GMT -4
If I could handle these Canadian winters, I just might have been able to spend a week in Montréal.
It's a beautiful city, but with all this snow... no thanks. After Overdrive, I hopped the first flight back to Vegas where the weather is never a concern. Now, I'm somewhere over Pennsylvania or New York heading toward Montréal's Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. Tomorrow is the Overdrive show at the Bell Centre. Apparently they play hockey or something there.
Thankfully, I was able to obtain passage on a semi-private jet with plenty of space to move around and only about a dozen travellers other than myself. To make it even better, they're all French and I can't understand a damned thing any of them say to me. I have to admit, though, the fellow that looks like Samuel L. Jackson has me a bit worried that an anaconda might fall out of the overhead storage bins at any given moment.
While back in Vegas, I was asked by nearly everyone how I felt about my upcoming Hell in a Cell match against John Green at Carnage. I felt like I was the only person not overlooking Jason Royce. Of course, there's not much about the guy that worries me.
"Hey, man, you got a light?"[/color]
Apparently not all of the passengers spoke only French. The Mace Windu looking guy has decided to try and make some small talk.
"Don't smoke, pal. Gets all up in my lungs."[/color]
I rap a fist on my sternum.
"Too bad. I think that Jason Royce guy's going to be rolling you up and smoking you at four-twenty tomorrow."[/color]
My mouth opens, but then closes as I really don't have a comeback to what Shaft just said.
"I bet you haven't even bothered to see what Royce has had to say about you this week, have you? All caught up in your little fantasy about becoming the second Action-Packed Wrestling World Champion has your mind clouded. Royce is going to step up and he's going to put you down. Hard."[/color]
Now, I've got something to say to this mouthy bald prick.
"Listen up, jack-off. Jason Royce couldn't tie my boots on his best day if I were in a coma. He doesn't deserve to be in the same ring as me, but also doesn't deserve to be in the same company that I'm in. Has he even won a match yet? He certainly wasn't in the ladder match to crown the first APW World Champ. Once he's stepped out of his little hidey-hole and done something to show that he's got what it takes, he's pretty much going to have to live with the simple fact that he's not going to walk out of Montréal's Bell Centre with the win. In fact, he's barely going to be able to walk out of the Bell Centre at all - and that's if he's lucky."[/color]
The black man chuckles, shaking his head as he walks back toward his seat. He obviously isn't buying my bravado, but it's not conceit - it's confidence.
Pulling my Blackberry out of my jacket pocket, I surf on over to YouTube.com so that I can watch exactly what it is Jason Royce has to say about our match...
...moments pass after Jason Royce's little tirade wraps up. I haven't put down my Blackberry yet, but my white knuckles attest to the fact that it may burst at it's seems if something doesn't distract me immedi...
"Mr. HaRdCoRe?"[/color]
I look up at the solitary flight attendant on this jet, a blonde woman with an enormous pair of... eyes. Between tightly clenched teeth, my voice comes boiling out of me like lava, anger tinging every syllable.
"What. Do. You. Want?"[/color]
The Blackberry shatters in my grasp, some of the plastic digging into my palm as blood trickles down into the sleeve of my jacket.
"Your Rolls-Royce Phantom Drophead is ready at the airport for when we land. The driver will be taking you to Ruben's on Sainte Catherine Street for lunch with Royce Gracie. I was simply asked to pass the message along."[/color]
I can't blame her for scurrying quickly away. I am surprised, however, when she comes back only a few seconds later with some antiseptic spray and a bandage for my hand. She quickly cleans and covers the wound without another word.
I glare icy death into the unblinking eye of the camera.
"I can't believe you went there, you mother-f***ing, c**k-s***ing, salad-tossing, rim-jobbing son of a whore!"
"I can deal with a lot of s**t being thrown at me. Verbal assault is a way to get in your opponent's head to try and put him off his game plan. Royce, I don't make game plans. I walk out to the ring, size up the piece of crap I have to face and simply start to beat him like a red-headed step-child. You want to hide behind all that bluster and bull-s**t, it's fine with me, but talking smack about my late mother is nothing more than you digging your own grave."
"I'd considered going easy on you at first. Giving you a fair shot to get yourself over. To make a name for yourself. Then - because you know you're in an impossible situation - you crossed the line. Remember, Royce, HaRdCoRe is my name... my game... and my claim to fame. Unfortunately, you get to be the next unlucky stiff to discover exactly what that means."
"Enjoy your next few breaths. They're going to be your last."[/color]
Too mad to allow the camera to keep recording me, I reach out with my bandaged hand and shove the camera-jockey backward. Everything fades to static as he loses the signal.
It's a beautiful city, but with all this snow... no thanks. After Overdrive, I hopped the first flight back to Vegas where the weather is never a concern. Now, I'm somewhere over Pennsylvania or New York heading toward Montréal's Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. Tomorrow is the Overdrive show at the Bell Centre. Apparently they play hockey or something there.
Thankfully, I was able to obtain passage on a semi-private jet with plenty of space to move around and only about a dozen travellers other than myself. To make it even better, they're all French and I can't understand a damned thing any of them say to me. I have to admit, though, the fellow that looks like Samuel L. Jackson has me a bit worried that an anaconda might fall out of the overhead storage bins at any given moment.
While back in Vegas, I was asked by nearly everyone how I felt about my upcoming Hell in a Cell match against John Green at Carnage. I felt like I was the only person not overlooking Jason Royce. Of course, there's not much about the guy that worries me.
"Hey, man, you got a light?"[/color]
Apparently not all of the passengers spoke only French. The Mace Windu looking guy has decided to try and make some small talk.
"Don't smoke, pal. Gets all up in my lungs."[/color]
I rap a fist on my sternum.
"Too bad. I think that Jason Royce guy's going to be rolling you up and smoking you at four-twenty tomorrow."[/color]
My mouth opens, but then closes as I really don't have a comeback to what Shaft just said.
"I bet you haven't even bothered to see what Royce has had to say about you this week, have you? All caught up in your little fantasy about becoming the second Action-Packed Wrestling World Champion has your mind clouded. Royce is going to step up and he's going to put you down. Hard."[/color]
Now, I've got something to say to this mouthy bald prick.
"Listen up, jack-off. Jason Royce couldn't tie my boots on his best day if I were in a coma. He doesn't deserve to be in the same ring as me, but also doesn't deserve to be in the same company that I'm in. Has he even won a match yet? He certainly wasn't in the ladder match to crown the first APW World Champ. Once he's stepped out of his little hidey-hole and done something to show that he's got what it takes, he's pretty much going to have to live with the simple fact that he's not going to walk out of Montréal's Bell Centre with the win. In fact, he's barely going to be able to walk out of the Bell Centre at all - and that's if he's lucky."[/color]
The black man chuckles, shaking his head as he walks back toward his seat. He obviously isn't buying my bravado, but it's not conceit - it's confidence.
Pulling my Blackberry out of my jacket pocket, I surf on over to YouTube.com so that I can watch exactly what it is Jason Royce has to say about our match...
...moments pass after Jason Royce's little tirade wraps up. I haven't put down my Blackberry yet, but my white knuckles attest to the fact that it may burst at it's seems if something doesn't distract me immedi...
"Mr. HaRdCoRe?"[/color]
I look up at the solitary flight attendant on this jet, a blonde woman with an enormous pair of... eyes. Between tightly clenched teeth, my voice comes boiling out of me like lava, anger tinging every syllable.
"What. Do. You. Want?"[/color]
The Blackberry shatters in my grasp, some of the plastic digging into my palm as blood trickles down into the sleeve of my jacket.
"Your Rolls-Royce Phantom Drophead is ready at the airport for when we land. The driver will be taking you to Ruben's on Sainte Catherine Street for lunch with Royce Gracie. I was simply asked to pass the message along."[/color]
I can't blame her for scurrying quickly away. I am surprised, however, when she comes back only a few seconds later with some antiseptic spray and a bandage for my hand. She quickly cleans and covers the wound without another word.
I glare icy death into the unblinking eye of the camera.
"I can't believe you went there, you mother-f***ing, c**k-s***ing, salad-tossing, rim-jobbing son of a whore!"
"I can deal with a lot of s**t being thrown at me. Verbal assault is a way to get in your opponent's head to try and put him off his game plan. Royce, I don't make game plans. I walk out to the ring, size up the piece of crap I have to face and simply start to beat him like a red-headed step-child. You want to hide behind all that bluster and bull-s**t, it's fine with me, but talking smack about my late mother is nothing more than you digging your own grave."
"I'd considered going easy on you at first. Giving you a fair shot to get yourself over. To make a name for yourself. Then - because you know you're in an impossible situation - you crossed the line. Remember, Royce, HaRdCoRe is my name... my game... and my claim to fame. Unfortunately, you get to be the next unlucky stiff to discover exactly what that means."
"Enjoy your next few breaths. They're going to be your last."[/color]
Too mad to allow the camera to keep recording me, I reach out with my bandaged hand and shove the camera-jockey backward. Everything fades to static as he loses the signal.
