Post by "The Hottest Shit Going" on Nov 17, 2009 12:46:13 GMT -4
The bright lights emanate heat which seems to steam the sweat off of my torso. I roll out of the ring with nothing but silence in my ears. The last thing to ring loud and clear prior to the eerie sounds of deafness was a solid three count from the refs hand slapping the mat. It almost as if I went into shock after that. Very few things made sense, until I rolled free from the ring. As my feet hit that thin layer of protection covering the cold concrete outside, the overwhelming sounds of the arena flooded into my ears. Almost as if I were swimming under water, and just arrived on the surface. The sounds rush in almost stunning me. The cheers from these idiots as they applaud my loss. The smiles on their faces as I stand cloaked in the stench of defeat sticking to me like cheap perfume on a corner slut.
These moments don't come around very often for some and for me this was one occasion I could surely have done with out. I could taste that sweet smell of victory in the air. I could feel the shift of momentum build up to where the pressure could no longer be withstood. I was about to do the unthinkable, pull off the unachievable, Michael Lively was about to get a victory over the World Champion live on Overdrive.
Instead we find ourselves here in the agony of defeat. Chris Cyrus running out here interrupting my pin fall attempt, injecting himself in my match, then disturbing the greatest move in the industry giving Level One a chance to slide out of the way. None the less these fans witnessed a battle, and one that I am sure will have it's day in the sun once more.
With that being said it's time to do that thing we as competitors hate so badly to do, the walk of shame. I unlike many really could care less about this walk. It's not shameful in any way for me. I left what I could inside that ring, and because of reasons undoing by me I am leaving with a loss. These retards sitting at ringside spewing there venom as if they were the ones that pinned my shoulders to the mat. Deep in their hateful hearts they know full well that with in a second I could have made a different outcome here this evening.
Instead the current Xtreme champion took this opportunity to show his card. He has been flaunting how little he could care about the big bad JESUS coming for his belt has meant to him. His actions here tonight spoke a different tone, a tone that he indeed feels I am a threat. You see this man tipped his hand, and showed his weakness. This man fears that I'm going succeed in my goal, and in doing so end his triumphant reign as champion. He made a move this evening thinking that he may have gotten in my head. He thinks he can exploit my ego live on television, in the pitiful attempts to one up me in the mental aspect of this game. This man has proved once again to me that he is but merely still a Kidd, playing with matches. Uncle Lively will prove this little bastard can surely burn!
Now with Overdrive come and gone we look forward to our future. The future of a wrestler changes from week to week. We have a rigorous travel schedule, and the competition never ends. The sight of last weeks Overdrive being in California, gave me the chance to make it home before heading out to the next leg of this thing we call work.
Las Vegas, a city of sin to some, home to me. A place where I retreated from my ruined childhood. A place we I rebuilt myself, and washed away the sins of those who tainted my young life. I created a new Michael Lively in these streets, at these hotels. I became a man that can stand on his own. This was my home, and a place where I come to relax whenever life permits.
In the gorgeous hills of Red Rock I jog the loop. When unsure of what was next, or trying to deal with anger I often traveled up here to get away. This jog unlike the one from my youth is a moment of clarity. I take this moment to reflect on my accomplishments, and look toward the goals yet still lying in the road ahead of me. You see I am not the person many view me as, a hot headed, ill tempered, ego maniac. Well the ego maniac part is true, yet the plan and action portion of Michael Lively is that of a master gamesmen. I can think of something, lay out a course of action, and wait for the game to unfold. Patience is a key to success in any portion of life, and the first thing I needed to master before becoming one of the best this business has to offer.
Many games have been set into motion. Some still play out as we speak, while others have run their course. As I jog this trail many of these things cloud my mind. I shuffle through them, releasing what no longer needs to take up space in my brain. A cleansing if you will, emptying out the shit locker before the overload of crap spills free.
This is what Red Rock means to me now. It was once an escape, a retreat to help me calm down when lifes struggles have taken over. Now through the beauty of this place it has become more like a school of thought. These precious maroon rocks look down upon me as I jog, almost begging for my greatness. They inspire me, and help me focus on the path. A course set out in front of me. This industry can easily make you lose your way, take you of course, and before you know you end up places you never thought you would be. You find yourself doing things you surely knew damn well you wouldn't have done, unless of course you were lost. No longer am I one of the lost, I know my direction, thanks to this place.
The irritating buzzing shaking the lint inside the pocket of my custom made Michael Lively "Fuck the World" sweat pants means someone is calling me. My feet stop causing dust to circle around my legs as I reach in there among my keys and all the change, pulling out my phone. A 386 area code, not familiar maybe it's business.
"Hello"
"Michael...it's uhh Steven"
Time just stood still in the blink of an eye. I could no longer feel regular emotions as pure shock has taken control of my body. All these years I have waited and thought about how this would go down. The things I practiced repeatedly seem to be lost at this very moment. My toes seem numb as my thoughts are unclear. The words of hate don't leave my mouth as the man on the other ends repeats my name once more.
"I'm here" I reply. I shake my head clear and have a seat.
"Listen, Michael I know that you probably don't have much for me these days, and I can't say I don't blame you. I just need a few minutes of your time. Just a little bit, so I can set a few things straight."
My eyes close as I absorb what he has just said to me. For after all this is the man who fathered me, who gave up his DNA so that I can be in existence today. My mind begins to mill over his request. Thinking what can it hurt, I am a grown man. He's the one who wronged me, he is the one with the shame and should harbor the guilt. Why is this affecting my life. I am the one who pulled myself up. I am the one who made something out of myself.
"So where then? Where do you want to meet. I mean as you know I live in Las Vegas, and your are who knows where."
"Lake City, Florida. I moved up here to my grandparents farm after I was released from jail. It has stayed in the family, and when your Grandma Dale past about six months ago she left it to me."
"Grandma Dale, thats funny I don't remember any grandparents. Hell I don't even remember parents for that matter!"
A huge sigh from the other end of the phone stops me from tearing into this man any further. There is no sense in my getting all fired up over something I can not change. The past is the past. My circumstances didn't define who I am they help mold me into what I was to become. Without parents I forged my own future, I created my own destiny. Now in such a critical time I get this phone call. When it rains it pours I must say.
"Michael, if you got time I can get a plane ticket...I don't want to burden you any further then I already have. I mean that in the sincerest way, there is just a few things we have to discuss in person."
"Alright, I will have Aaron get in touch with you. He has my schedule, and can figure out a good time for all this to go down."
With that the conversation ended. My phone found it's way back in my pocket. Now in what I thought was a moment of peace and clarity, I stare up to these gorgeous red rocks almost begging them for strength and guidance. A breeze then picks up whipping past me almost as if the mountains whispered in my ear to run. A smile comes over my face as I head the instructions, and continue on my path.
Preparing for Battle Once Again
Like most of my spots we find me-self engulfed in craziness. Sounds familiar but here I stand outside a pet shop once again. Calm down, we are in America, and I think that we won't find ourselves engaged in any Matrix type antics with canines on this episode of Lively action.
As I step out of the car, my eyes glares a hole into Chubs the camera man. He knows exactly what this sight means, and quickly tosses the camera on his shoulder. The blinking red light means not only are we recording, but the ultra-asshole needs to appear. I snap right into action demanding my mother to hurry her little ass up as she exits the car. I boast how the door to the pet shop will not open itself. This tyrant type demand prompts her to do just that and hold that fucker wide open as we enter the store.
My head glares over to the puppy adoption center, and my feet then begin to stroll that direction. The yapping sounds, and horrid smell of little pooch's' waiting for homes is overwhelming at first but then soon settles in on you. Almost like a fart, stunning at first, then really not so bad.
Lively: Hey, sugar tits...you in charge of this place or what?
My mother, chubs and the woman all look at me rather weird. OK, note to self...sugar tits doesn't work real well.
Woman: Uhh, no but how can I help you.
Lively: Well if you are not in charge then you can not help now can you. You see I asked for the man in charge, so be a good little broad and get me the manager.
A little stiff, but hey I'm filming a promo, got to put on the best ME I can. To my surprise, a man walks up with the look of management in his deminar. As he moves closer I can surely tell his importance by the red ribbon hanging from his name tag. It looks like we found ourselves a winner here folks, the manager.
Lively: You the man in charge?
Manager: Yes, what seems to be the problem?
Lively: Other then employees that don't answer questions when they are asked, hopefully nothing. Listen, I know you have this room reserved for people to get to know a fancy little canine before possibly taking it home...but I want to book this room.
Manager: What do you mean book this room? We don't do birthday parties or things like that sir.
Lively: Listen big man, I am fully willing to pay a hefty amount of cash for this room to be held up exclusively for me and say a few friends.
Manager: This is not a night club sir, we don't hold rooms for rent. This is where a family or individual goes to have a little intimate time with a possible new friend they wish to make a part of their family.
Lively: Alright mac, let me cut to the chase. You obviously don't recognize me...thats fine. My name is Michael Lively, I am one of the greatest superstars to ever enter a wrestling ring under contract with APW...now ringing any bells.
By the nod from this dense son of a bitch I can tell he still doesn't know. How could you be present on this earth and not have the extreme pleasure of knowing the one and only Michael Mother Fucking Lively.
Lively: Anyways it doesn't matter my friend. Listen I am a skillful master of the squared circle. I have solid base in wrestling, with a nasty aerial assault. My submission game is tight, and I present a brutal defense to boot. This next week though I fight something I have never seen before, have an opponent that presents s strange talent that even I haven't had the chance to combat yet. That is why I need this room for about an hour, plus a few other things if they are available. This is going to be an all out training session, to prepare me for the formidable opponent known solely as Toucan Sam!!!
Now I know that sounded very ridiculous, and from the looks of my mother and this manager it surely was. No matter though, I must put on something outrageous, I must put forth something unseen. These people will know what I mean very shortly.
Lively: Listen, this guy has one hell of a snouser...the beak on this bastard is insane.I haven't fought someone who could peck you to death before...
The strange look in this man's eye tells me that this manager is less then thrilled with where I am going thus far, let me see if I can push that envelope even further.
Lively: So, you'll hold the room.
Wait for it...
Lively: I go in this room and you bring me about ten of your meanest, most rugged birds. I need nasty talon having, snarling beaked bastards so that I can fully train for this upcoming opponent.
There it was, the look I was hoping for. I can garner this look from just about anybody with my outrageous comments, or outlandish actions. The manager truly has never had an offer like this before, and the sad part is he seems to be thinking it over.
Manager: Let me see, the Cockatoo's are pretty volatile little shits with the right motivation. Now are we talking death match status, or just simple defeat...I need to know before we set a price. Oh, and we could really step it up a bit by adding the razor blade booties to their talons if you wish.
Now I'm shocked, this fucker is all about it. He is about to give in to my sick request, and actually put these poor birds through the ringer with the one and only JESUS.
An Hour Later
I sit with a mound of feather floating all around me. The carcasses of about seven birds lay around my feet. These are the bodies of the fallen, the signal f victory. It was a brutal battle, but only one of us could make it out alive. It seemed that I only had enough cash on me for about even birds, and two of them to get weaponed up. That fucker with a nail tapped to his beak was mother fucker to handle, but good ole Michael Lively pulled it out. I now know how to combat that big freaking nose of John Greens. There will be no peck fest 2009 on Overdrive for I am the master of Toucan Ju-Jitz-Zu.
The slight awkward look of my mother is somewhat disturbing after this has all been said and done. I'm not sure what else to say, or where else to go. I figured that for sure there would be no way in hell this fucking guy would condone something of this nature. None the less here we are, and I must make the best of this. So, I walk from the room scratched and bleeding from a few pin holes in my skin. Feathers in my hair, and droppings of bird shit on my shirt. I stare deep into that camera and cut loose on a Michael Lively promo that only I can do...because I am him, and he is I.
Lively: The nature of the beast, the law of the jungle, the survival of the fittest. John Green I have seen the desperation in the eyes of animals...I have learned what this law truly means. The cold eyes of a bird as it knows that within two point five seconds my teeth will be ripping the little beak of his face. The look in his eyes as he knows there is nothing he can do about it. That is the look you seem to have in your sunken deep in your eyes these days John Green. A look of desperation, as if there is nothing left for you to do except DIE!
Many people have tried to light a fire under your ass. Many people have tried to give you motivation to get back to where you once were. I am one of those people, and you seem to have been left behind crumpled In a pile of shit as my wake of greatness seemed to pile drive you into the sad existence that we all see you swimming in these days. The water is way too deep for you grade C aquatic skills Green. You are in over your beak. The time for panic is now, the time to worry about how to escape has long passed. It's too late sunshine, you have crossed over that hump, and entered a territory that many don't return from.
You have entered the eerie land of Ultimate Suck-dom, located directly in the heart and soul of Parts Unknown. You see along with ass clowns like Papa Shango, Max Moon, and the Repo Man you walk this desolate desert in search for something. You have no compass, no map, but you are seriously lost.
The search has overwhelmed you, and clouded your judgment. It has polluted your brain, and from the looks of your last promo shoot there isn't much left. All rambling, and nonsense with the endless jabbing of your jaw. Hell I think they just cut from your promo while you were still talking and went right into the show. I heard Biggs say that during your match last week it seemed while trying to sink him in a sup lex your were still monologuing.
The good news is Green here I come. I am here to help. Stop trying to hump Kamala's leg for just a moment and look my direction. No my hand is extended to help you jack off Giant Gonzalez, it's to help pull you from this waste land. This is a helping hand to let you know that you can not find what you are looking for in Parts Unknown.
Simply unzip your pants, drop your boxers, and reach down below...there you go. Those are balls, which makes you a man. Now stop acting like a little bitch, and become one already. Take this world into your own hands, and let us see once and for all the best you have to offer. It will be good enough to beat some, but not me. I'm just the kick start to your engine. This ass whipping I offer up will hopeful snap you out of Wonka's chocolate factory and bring you screaming back to APW's reality.
At then end of the day Bird Man you aren't half bad, but very Green, and it's fitting. You have the body of a true talent, the looks of a serious threat, yet the mind that occupies that frame is no match. You childish fuck, it's time to let those balls hang free, let them slap your legs a bit so you can get used to the fact that this is a mans sport, and you are fully engaged in war with real men.
Losses will keep adding up, as your credibility gets dwindled away with each one. These are all points that Level One, and various others point out on the regular. I however seem to think that maybe I can make a difference. I seem to think that loosing to me for the possibly sixth time, might have an impact. If it doesn't then so be it. You will be laying on the mat, in a broken heap of shit for simply no reason.
Don't get my willingness to help misguided. An ass whipping is coming your way simple as that. I don't give a fuck what kind of hormone you stick in your butt cheeks. It makes no difference how hard you train, or what kind of weights you lift. You can come dressed in a suit, or simply strap on those underoos you sport to the ring. The solid god damn fact that will be unveiled on Overdrive is that John Green will get that lilly ass spanked one more time by the Hottest Shit Going.
What you do from that point on Green is fully up to you. Drown yourself in the river of shiftiness like you seem to be bathing in as of late; or maybe on this very day you look around you. You take notice of the things passing you by, the chances and opportunities that you seem to think will be dealt out when ever you wish after you squandered them all away. The clock is ticking on you John Green, it's running ever so fast. You can crawl out of that muddy river that we have witnessed you frolicking around in, step on dry land and realize that it was a pile of shit that you were drowning in. Your career up to this point has been nothing but that, a wasteful pile of shit.
Miracles can happen, even you can guide this ship in the right direction. The one miracle that surely wont be blessed upon your misfortune ass is walking out of Overdrive with a victory over me.
I almost went into this match thinking, if he is going to get beaten so badly on Overdrive maybe I could spare him the tongue lashing. The whore of reality gave me a solid bitch, making me remember just how fun it is to watch you crumble from mere words. You are the perfect example of getting in peoples heads, and ruining their chances prior to the bell. John Green, your skills inside the ring don't measure up. You run that mouth from time to time hyping a good game. The sad part is the everyone here has seen it all before. We have all witnessed the self promotion of a former world champion, that should have never been.
It's time to end the charade Green, it's time to stop shooting for the moon, because you just keep landing in Jason Royce's backyard. Embrace that home, or step the fuck up and do something about, enough rants, and ramblings. NO more talk of this tough game you present...open the box and show someone. I know whats in that box Green...it can't handle the JESUS. You have tried to open that fucker on me before, and we found out just how well that worked out for ya.
So take this loss, and head back to the locker room. You change out of your panties, and strap on that fancy suit. You walk over to the mirror and take a hard long look. As you gaze upon the essence of shit, you take a few wiffs...this is what we have been dealing with on and off for about a solid year now, this is the smell you have forced us to endure. Now, Green you take that fucking box, you open it up and start to do something with yourself, because Jeff has put in a work order, and they are getting rid of the dead weight piles of shit stinking up the backstage area. Apparently the World champion can no longer deal with the smell, and seems to think carrying the extra weight is a little much!
I just can't stand the sight of you bitching out. The constant pussification of John Green is old already, it has grown overrated, and now seems to be driving the ratings down. If I were you, maybe I would take the bridge route...I hear they got some big bridges around here somewhere...if not I know there is a tall building you can plunge the fuck off of. Frankly there aren't too many people pulling for you, not too many give three shits anymore. You have run your course, disappointed many over and over again.
Overdrive will be just another stamp on the letter, the letter that seems to keeps going out and coming back undeliverable. I realize Green that no one is home, but maybe someday...someday real soon...you can dust off the furniture, take a seat on the couch and reclaim whats yours. Until then please...leave me the fuck alone, I am desperately tired of kicking your ass.
With that I simply dust off a few feathers, and drops Chubs the cut it signal by super kicking him right in the chin. His fat ass stumbles back wards falling into a bucket of dry dog food. The camera hits the floor, and I simply just walk back out to the car.
These moments don't come around very often for some and for me this was one occasion I could surely have done with out. I could taste that sweet smell of victory in the air. I could feel the shift of momentum build up to where the pressure could no longer be withstood. I was about to do the unthinkable, pull off the unachievable, Michael Lively was about to get a victory over the World Champion live on Overdrive.
Instead we find ourselves here in the agony of defeat. Chris Cyrus running out here interrupting my pin fall attempt, injecting himself in my match, then disturbing the greatest move in the industry giving Level One a chance to slide out of the way. None the less these fans witnessed a battle, and one that I am sure will have it's day in the sun once more.
With that being said it's time to do that thing we as competitors hate so badly to do, the walk of shame. I unlike many really could care less about this walk. It's not shameful in any way for me. I left what I could inside that ring, and because of reasons undoing by me I am leaving with a loss. These retards sitting at ringside spewing there venom as if they were the ones that pinned my shoulders to the mat. Deep in their hateful hearts they know full well that with in a second I could have made a different outcome here this evening.
Instead the current Xtreme champion took this opportunity to show his card. He has been flaunting how little he could care about the big bad JESUS coming for his belt has meant to him. His actions here tonight spoke a different tone, a tone that he indeed feels I am a threat. You see this man tipped his hand, and showed his weakness. This man fears that I'm going succeed in my goal, and in doing so end his triumphant reign as champion. He made a move this evening thinking that he may have gotten in my head. He thinks he can exploit my ego live on television, in the pitiful attempts to one up me in the mental aspect of this game. This man has proved once again to me that he is but merely still a Kidd, playing with matches. Uncle Lively will prove this little bastard can surely burn!
Now with Overdrive come and gone we look forward to our future. The future of a wrestler changes from week to week. We have a rigorous travel schedule, and the competition never ends. The sight of last weeks Overdrive being in California, gave me the chance to make it home before heading out to the next leg of this thing we call work.
Las Vegas, a city of sin to some, home to me. A place where I retreated from my ruined childhood. A place we I rebuilt myself, and washed away the sins of those who tainted my young life. I created a new Michael Lively in these streets, at these hotels. I became a man that can stand on his own. This was my home, and a place where I come to relax whenever life permits.
In the gorgeous hills of Red Rock I jog the loop. When unsure of what was next, or trying to deal with anger I often traveled up here to get away. This jog unlike the one from my youth is a moment of clarity. I take this moment to reflect on my accomplishments, and look toward the goals yet still lying in the road ahead of me. You see I am not the person many view me as, a hot headed, ill tempered, ego maniac. Well the ego maniac part is true, yet the plan and action portion of Michael Lively is that of a master gamesmen. I can think of something, lay out a course of action, and wait for the game to unfold. Patience is a key to success in any portion of life, and the first thing I needed to master before becoming one of the best this business has to offer.
Many games have been set into motion. Some still play out as we speak, while others have run their course. As I jog this trail many of these things cloud my mind. I shuffle through them, releasing what no longer needs to take up space in my brain. A cleansing if you will, emptying out the shit locker before the overload of crap spills free.
This is what Red Rock means to me now. It was once an escape, a retreat to help me calm down when lifes struggles have taken over. Now through the beauty of this place it has become more like a school of thought. These precious maroon rocks look down upon me as I jog, almost begging for my greatness. They inspire me, and help me focus on the path. A course set out in front of me. This industry can easily make you lose your way, take you of course, and before you know you end up places you never thought you would be. You find yourself doing things you surely knew damn well you wouldn't have done, unless of course you were lost. No longer am I one of the lost, I know my direction, thanks to this place.
The irritating buzzing shaking the lint inside the pocket of my custom made Michael Lively "Fuck the World" sweat pants means someone is calling me. My feet stop causing dust to circle around my legs as I reach in there among my keys and all the change, pulling out my phone. A 386 area code, not familiar maybe it's business.
"Hello"
"Michael...it's uhh Steven"
Time just stood still in the blink of an eye. I could no longer feel regular emotions as pure shock has taken control of my body. All these years I have waited and thought about how this would go down. The things I practiced repeatedly seem to be lost at this very moment. My toes seem numb as my thoughts are unclear. The words of hate don't leave my mouth as the man on the other ends repeats my name once more.
"I'm here" I reply. I shake my head clear and have a seat.
"Listen, Michael I know that you probably don't have much for me these days, and I can't say I don't blame you. I just need a few minutes of your time. Just a little bit, so I can set a few things straight."
My eyes close as I absorb what he has just said to me. For after all this is the man who fathered me, who gave up his DNA so that I can be in existence today. My mind begins to mill over his request. Thinking what can it hurt, I am a grown man. He's the one who wronged me, he is the one with the shame and should harbor the guilt. Why is this affecting my life. I am the one who pulled myself up. I am the one who made something out of myself.
"So where then? Where do you want to meet. I mean as you know I live in Las Vegas, and your are who knows where."
"Lake City, Florida. I moved up here to my grandparents farm after I was released from jail. It has stayed in the family, and when your Grandma Dale past about six months ago she left it to me."
"Grandma Dale, thats funny I don't remember any grandparents. Hell I don't even remember parents for that matter!"
A huge sigh from the other end of the phone stops me from tearing into this man any further. There is no sense in my getting all fired up over something I can not change. The past is the past. My circumstances didn't define who I am they help mold me into what I was to become. Without parents I forged my own future, I created my own destiny. Now in such a critical time I get this phone call. When it rains it pours I must say.
"Michael, if you got time I can get a plane ticket...I don't want to burden you any further then I already have. I mean that in the sincerest way, there is just a few things we have to discuss in person."
"Alright, I will have Aaron get in touch with you. He has my schedule, and can figure out a good time for all this to go down."
With that the conversation ended. My phone found it's way back in my pocket. Now in what I thought was a moment of peace and clarity, I stare up to these gorgeous red rocks almost begging them for strength and guidance. A breeze then picks up whipping past me almost as if the mountains whispered in my ear to run. A smile comes over my face as I head the instructions, and continue on my path.
Preparing for Battle Once Again
Like most of my spots we find me-self engulfed in craziness. Sounds familiar but here I stand outside a pet shop once again. Calm down, we are in America, and I think that we won't find ourselves engaged in any Matrix type antics with canines on this episode of Lively action.
As I step out of the car, my eyes glares a hole into Chubs the camera man. He knows exactly what this sight means, and quickly tosses the camera on his shoulder. The blinking red light means not only are we recording, but the ultra-asshole needs to appear. I snap right into action demanding my mother to hurry her little ass up as she exits the car. I boast how the door to the pet shop will not open itself. This tyrant type demand prompts her to do just that and hold that fucker wide open as we enter the store.
My head glares over to the puppy adoption center, and my feet then begin to stroll that direction. The yapping sounds, and horrid smell of little pooch's' waiting for homes is overwhelming at first but then soon settles in on you. Almost like a fart, stunning at first, then really not so bad.
Lively: Hey, sugar tits...you in charge of this place or what?
My mother, chubs and the woman all look at me rather weird. OK, note to self...sugar tits doesn't work real well.
Woman: Uhh, no but how can I help you.
Lively: Well if you are not in charge then you can not help now can you. You see I asked for the man in charge, so be a good little broad and get me the manager.
A little stiff, but hey I'm filming a promo, got to put on the best ME I can. To my surprise, a man walks up with the look of management in his deminar. As he moves closer I can surely tell his importance by the red ribbon hanging from his name tag. It looks like we found ourselves a winner here folks, the manager.
Lively: You the man in charge?
Manager: Yes, what seems to be the problem?
Lively: Other then employees that don't answer questions when they are asked, hopefully nothing. Listen, I know you have this room reserved for people to get to know a fancy little canine before possibly taking it home...but I want to book this room.
Manager: What do you mean book this room? We don't do birthday parties or things like that sir.
Lively: Listen big man, I am fully willing to pay a hefty amount of cash for this room to be held up exclusively for me and say a few friends.
Manager: This is not a night club sir, we don't hold rooms for rent. This is where a family or individual goes to have a little intimate time with a possible new friend they wish to make a part of their family.
Lively: Alright mac, let me cut to the chase. You obviously don't recognize me...thats fine. My name is Michael Lively, I am one of the greatest superstars to ever enter a wrestling ring under contract with APW...now ringing any bells.
By the nod from this dense son of a bitch I can tell he still doesn't know. How could you be present on this earth and not have the extreme pleasure of knowing the one and only Michael Mother Fucking Lively.
Lively: Anyways it doesn't matter my friend. Listen I am a skillful master of the squared circle. I have solid base in wrestling, with a nasty aerial assault. My submission game is tight, and I present a brutal defense to boot. This next week though I fight something I have never seen before, have an opponent that presents s strange talent that even I haven't had the chance to combat yet. That is why I need this room for about an hour, plus a few other things if they are available. This is going to be an all out training session, to prepare me for the formidable opponent known solely as Toucan Sam!!!
Now I know that sounded very ridiculous, and from the looks of my mother and this manager it surely was. No matter though, I must put on something outrageous, I must put forth something unseen. These people will know what I mean very shortly.
Lively: Listen, this guy has one hell of a snouser...the beak on this bastard is insane.I haven't fought someone who could peck you to death before...
The strange look in this man's eye tells me that this manager is less then thrilled with where I am going thus far, let me see if I can push that envelope even further.
Lively: So, you'll hold the room.
Wait for it...
Lively: I go in this room and you bring me about ten of your meanest, most rugged birds. I need nasty talon having, snarling beaked bastards so that I can fully train for this upcoming opponent.
There it was, the look I was hoping for. I can garner this look from just about anybody with my outrageous comments, or outlandish actions. The manager truly has never had an offer like this before, and the sad part is he seems to be thinking it over.
Manager: Let me see, the Cockatoo's are pretty volatile little shits with the right motivation. Now are we talking death match status, or just simple defeat...I need to know before we set a price. Oh, and we could really step it up a bit by adding the razor blade booties to their talons if you wish.
Now I'm shocked, this fucker is all about it. He is about to give in to my sick request, and actually put these poor birds through the ringer with the one and only JESUS.
An Hour Later
I sit with a mound of feather floating all around me. The carcasses of about seven birds lay around my feet. These are the bodies of the fallen, the signal f victory. It was a brutal battle, but only one of us could make it out alive. It seemed that I only had enough cash on me for about even birds, and two of them to get weaponed up. That fucker with a nail tapped to his beak was mother fucker to handle, but good ole Michael Lively pulled it out. I now know how to combat that big freaking nose of John Greens. There will be no peck fest 2009 on Overdrive for I am the master of Toucan Ju-Jitz-Zu.
The slight awkward look of my mother is somewhat disturbing after this has all been said and done. I'm not sure what else to say, or where else to go. I figured that for sure there would be no way in hell this fucking guy would condone something of this nature. None the less here we are, and I must make the best of this. So, I walk from the room scratched and bleeding from a few pin holes in my skin. Feathers in my hair, and droppings of bird shit on my shirt. I stare deep into that camera and cut loose on a Michael Lively promo that only I can do...because I am him, and he is I.
Lively: The nature of the beast, the law of the jungle, the survival of the fittest. John Green I have seen the desperation in the eyes of animals...I have learned what this law truly means. The cold eyes of a bird as it knows that within two point five seconds my teeth will be ripping the little beak of his face. The look in his eyes as he knows there is nothing he can do about it. That is the look you seem to have in your sunken deep in your eyes these days John Green. A look of desperation, as if there is nothing left for you to do except DIE!
Many people have tried to light a fire under your ass. Many people have tried to give you motivation to get back to where you once were. I am one of those people, and you seem to have been left behind crumpled In a pile of shit as my wake of greatness seemed to pile drive you into the sad existence that we all see you swimming in these days. The water is way too deep for you grade C aquatic skills Green. You are in over your beak. The time for panic is now, the time to worry about how to escape has long passed. It's too late sunshine, you have crossed over that hump, and entered a territory that many don't return from.
You have entered the eerie land of Ultimate Suck-dom, located directly in the heart and soul of Parts Unknown. You see along with ass clowns like Papa Shango, Max Moon, and the Repo Man you walk this desolate desert in search for something. You have no compass, no map, but you are seriously lost.
The search has overwhelmed you, and clouded your judgment. It has polluted your brain, and from the looks of your last promo shoot there isn't much left. All rambling, and nonsense with the endless jabbing of your jaw. Hell I think they just cut from your promo while you were still talking and went right into the show. I heard Biggs say that during your match last week it seemed while trying to sink him in a sup lex your were still monologuing.
The good news is Green here I come. I am here to help. Stop trying to hump Kamala's leg for just a moment and look my direction. No my hand is extended to help you jack off Giant Gonzalez, it's to help pull you from this waste land. This is a helping hand to let you know that you can not find what you are looking for in Parts Unknown.
Simply unzip your pants, drop your boxers, and reach down below...there you go. Those are balls, which makes you a man. Now stop acting like a little bitch, and become one already. Take this world into your own hands, and let us see once and for all the best you have to offer. It will be good enough to beat some, but not me. I'm just the kick start to your engine. This ass whipping I offer up will hopeful snap you out of Wonka's chocolate factory and bring you screaming back to APW's reality.
At then end of the day Bird Man you aren't half bad, but very Green, and it's fitting. You have the body of a true talent, the looks of a serious threat, yet the mind that occupies that frame is no match. You childish fuck, it's time to let those balls hang free, let them slap your legs a bit so you can get used to the fact that this is a mans sport, and you are fully engaged in war with real men.
Losses will keep adding up, as your credibility gets dwindled away with each one. These are all points that Level One, and various others point out on the regular. I however seem to think that maybe I can make a difference. I seem to think that loosing to me for the possibly sixth time, might have an impact. If it doesn't then so be it. You will be laying on the mat, in a broken heap of shit for simply no reason.
Don't get my willingness to help misguided. An ass whipping is coming your way simple as that. I don't give a fuck what kind of hormone you stick in your butt cheeks. It makes no difference how hard you train, or what kind of weights you lift. You can come dressed in a suit, or simply strap on those underoos you sport to the ring. The solid god damn fact that will be unveiled on Overdrive is that John Green will get that lilly ass spanked one more time by the Hottest Shit Going.
What you do from that point on Green is fully up to you. Drown yourself in the river of shiftiness like you seem to be bathing in as of late; or maybe on this very day you look around you. You take notice of the things passing you by, the chances and opportunities that you seem to think will be dealt out when ever you wish after you squandered them all away. The clock is ticking on you John Green, it's running ever so fast. You can crawl out of that muddy river that we have witnessed you frolicking around in, step on dry land and realize that it was a pile of shit that you were drowning in. Your career up to this point has been nothing but that, a wasteful pile of shit.
Miracles can happen, even you can guide this ship in the right direction. The one miracle that surely wont be blessed upon your misfortune ass is walking out of Overdrive with a victory over me.
I almost went into this match thinking, if he is going to get beaten so badly on Overdrive maybe I could spare him the tongue lashing. The whore of reality gave me a solid bitch, making me remember just how fun it is to watch you crumble from mere words. You are the perfect example of getting in peoples heads, and ruining their chances prior to the bell. John Green, your skills inside the ring don't measure up. You run that mouth from time to time hyping a good game. The sad part is the everyone here has seen it all before. We have all witnessed the self promotion of a former world champion, that should have never been.
It's time to end the charade Green, it's time to stop shooting for the moon, because you just keep landing in Jason Royce's backyard. Embrace that home, or step the fuck up and do something about, enough rants, and ramblings. NO more talk of this tough game you present...open the box and show someone. I know whats in that box Green...it can't handle the JESUS. You have tried to open that fucker on me before, and we found out just how well that worked out for ya.
So take this loss, and head back to the locker room. You change out of your panties, and strap on that fancy suit. You walk over to the mirror and take a hard long look. As you gaze upon the essence of shit, you take a few wiffs...this is what we have been dealing with on and off for about a solid year now, this is the smell you have forced us to endure. Now, Green you take that fucking box, you open it up and start to do something with yourself, because Jeff has put in a work order, and they are getting rid of the dead weight piles of shit stinking up the backstage area. Apparently the World champion can no longer deal with the smell, and seems to think carrying the extra weight is a little much!
I just can't stand the sight of you bitching out. The constant pussification of John Green is old already, it has grown overrated, and now seems to be driving the ratings down. If I were you, maybe I would take the bridge route...I hear they got some big bridges around here somewhere...if not I know there is a tall building you can plunge the fuck off of. Frankly there aren't too many people pulling for you, not too many give three shits anymore. You have run your course, disappointed many over and over again.
Overdrive will be just another stamp on the letter, the letter that seems to keeps going out and coming back undeliverable. I realize Green that no one is home, but maybe someday...someday real soon...you can dust off the furniture, take a seat on the couch and reclaim whats yours. Until then please...leave me the fuck alone, I am desperately tired of kicking your ass.
With that I simply dust off a few feathers, and drops Chubs the cut it signal by super kicking him right in the chin. His fat ass stumbles back wards falling into a bucket of dry dog food. The camera hits the floor, and I simply just walk back out to the car.
