Post by Level-Two on Jul 29, 2009 20:56:56 GMT -4
’One’s’’ Victimless face (1)
It had felt as if there had been a shift in the universe and everything wrong about the world suddenly felt right. Sure, kids in Africa were still starving and sure orphanages grew in size, and sure the death, rape, and theft rate was on the up rise within the cities core—but I had won back the APW world championship, I saved a promotion that had been threatened by a man who wasn’t fit to carry the strap and suddenly the worlds problems quickly drifted away, even if they had only fled momentarily.
For the first night in a long time I had managed to sleep throughout with little to no disturbance along the way. I had no nightmares; and I’ve never had a dream—it was quite frankly one of the most refreshing things I had felt in a long time. And laying in my bed, I couldn’t help but stare at the APW world championship that hugged a coat rack. It smiled back at me, my name engraved in its gold plate—signifying that it was mine and mine only, and nobody was going to take that away from me.
I slipped out of bed my shirtless tattered skin exposed to anyone who dared to watch me. I spread open the curtains and immediately the sun crept through my window, blinding me momentarily. I quickly shut the curtains and looked back over to the rack which held my world championship, and thought about what I had just noticed. I hate the glow of the sun…
Yet I love the glow of the championship.
It was funny how that works. I grabbed the world championship, and tossed it over my shoulder before making my way out the room. With each step I took to descend down the stair case, the image had pounded my head over and over again—and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t forget the moment in time I beat Pence Weather light and saved an entire world from the atrocity the man would’ve committed should he had held onto the championship one second longer.
But as time went on; the images became blurred. As time went on; the championship lost its glow—and a scent, it had gotten stronger. It had clung to the fine hairs in my nostrils, nearly taunting me with the smell of death.
‘’What the fuck is that smell?’’ I asked myself.
I followed the scent—which had threatened to serve as my demise. And the closer I got; the faster I ran. The hall way was long, my penthouse was as large as any, and as I got to the front door, thrusting it opened I saw a plastic bag lying in the floor which had best been described as fire ball. Not too far away from it laid a small note which had entailed;
Lester Only,
Your world may smell like roses now—but when it all burns everything you ever had, known, or loved will be gone forever
With a twisted look of disgust on my face I quickly shut the door.
‘’Ah, fuck’’ I cursed. ‘’Someone left a burning pile of shit on my doorstep…’’
…it was more then just a prank.
Downtown had been the life of this city, and it came to life when the sun fell below the horizon and the night hung over the city, taunting the inhabitants below with a goodnight. The countless lights around the city made it easy to maneuver around and even harder to exploit. Still, girls with skirts too low for their fathers to get high off in pride walked the streets in groups because they followed the ‘’better safe then sorry’’ philosophy that already had they banged a few times in the back of the street car bus. Speaking of which, it’s how I got here.
Besides the penthouse, I didn’t live too lavishly. Most of my money had been outside of the bank and hidden underground where only my closest friends would benefit from my gains—but then I realized I had no friends and nobody would ever benefit from me leaving the face of this planet anytime soon, and so I digged it back up again, and have it locked in the safe, my memory swallowing the key.
So why was I here you ask? Patricia Lewis awaited me an upscale restaurant; it wasn’t’ a date as much as it was an appointment, so I hadn’t been dressed too fancy. A pair of black pants and a white shirt which did nothing to hide my career as a wrestler—but by now everyone knew who I was. The bakery man whom I pass on my way to the restaurant.
‘’Hola!’’
To the four girls wearing skirts that begged them to be raped…
‘’Isn’t he the guy on television?’’
To the young teenage boy, who see’s me, and doesn’t even dare to take the opportunity to hound me for an autograph; I can’t help but smile for that one.
‘’Smart kid’’ I whisper.
It was a nice restaurant; the best you could find in the city, without flying overseas to Paris for some odd delicacy—yet, it wasn’t for me. But Patricia she was a women of great worth, she was smart, she was intelligent—and something made me take lengths and liberties I otherwise wouldn’t have with any other girl.
But this restaurant…it was filled with the snobbiest people you could find. They cared only about their money, their social status amongst the ladder. They wore suits, fancy dresses and ties—and one woman even had the gull to gawk my attire. A waitress led me to a table where Patricia sat—her hair done up for the special occasion, she wore a dress but nothing too over the top. She wasn’t rich by any means, and I had been footing the bill, anyhow.
‘’You look nice’’ Patricia teased as I took a seat at the table.
‘’Thanks’’ I replied feverishly. Patricia stared at me, as if I was supposed to have any more to say, and so I returned a blank stare.
‘’Well…’’ Patricia pushed on impatiently.
‘’Right, how are you doing?’’ I asked. Patricia rolled her eyes and sighed deeply.
‘’I’m doing alright’’ Patricia replies in monotone, as she shakes off her disappointment. ‘’I’m just glad we get to spend time with each-other…’’
I nodded my head casually. ‘’Yeah, it’s cool to just hang out’’
Patricia raised her eye brow. ‘’Hang out?’’ She questioned me with agitation shooting through her voice; I looked up at her like a lost puppy. ‘’I think you have taken too many chair shots the skull’’ Patricia shot back.
‘’Speaking of which…’’ I started off. ‘’Man, does it feel good to be APW world champion again. You know, I didn’t know how much I missed that thing until I lost it’’
‘’Seriously?’’ Patricia says, her voice jumping up an octave.
‘’Yeah, I feel like I’m on the top of the world right now. Three world titles in less then a week? That’s unheard of’’ I bragged. ‘’I think I have found the spark I had been missing for all this time. Don’t you see? I don’t need to step out of the ring. I still have it. I’m not losing it. I never lost it’’
‘’We haven’t spoke in two weeks!’’ Patricia shot back, this time I realized—that perhaps I missed the concept of this specific meeting. ''A few weeks ago, we were almost killed. And do you know I haven't stopped receiving death threats since? Yet, you allow me to walk out that door, you fail to offer me any security because your too busy with your career'' Patricia ranted. In panic, I had turned my head and watched a couple coiled together as one before focusing back onto Patricia
This was a date.
‘’You know Lester that I have been trying to help you out with the problems you’ve had in and outside that ring—and this is how you thank me for it? You turn your back on all the advice, all our talks, everything!’’ Patricia eyes sharpened. ‘’Tell me, were you EVER serious about slowing down? Sticking to one company, one tour schedule, and really sitting back long enough to live your life?’’
I didn’t know how to answer that; I couldn’t answer that.
‘’Then that’s all I need to know’’ Patricia said rising to her feet; her pretty face boiling with the blood beneath her pores.
‘’Wait’’ I protested—but my effort wasn’t appreciated. Patricia Lewis turned back once more, and that would be the last time I thought I’d see her face, or hear her words…
‘’By the way, good luck with Biggs’’ Patricia snarled, exiting the restaurant leaving me alone.
For the second it took for her to leave; for her to let out a vicious scream that paralyzed me from my neck down, and for a car tires to screech along the pavement for an urgent getaway—it had made for the longest minute of my life. The minutes seemed as if they turned into hours—and the hours quickly became an eternity.
The smell of the flaming bag of shit turned my stomach once again. Its smell re-introduced itself to my nostrils driving me sick to my stomach taunting me with what I had, and now with what I had lost...
Patricia Lewis was gone.
So you lazy arm chaired bookers decided to give me Biggs as an opponent this week? To be honest; I’m not ecstatic about this match up, partly due to the fact that I have nothing to gain from it. It’s pointless, it proves nothing—and at the end of the day Biggs will take the loss on the brunt of his bruised shoulders and broken bones and somehow twists it into a win through the filthy words that his tongue allows him to spew on a weekly basis. Are we seriously led to believe, this fucking nobody, this glorified mid card punching bag, actually stands a chance against a man of my stature?
I think the problem with opponents like these, tossed onto my plate week after week—is solely based off the fact that the APW lacks talent. The APW lacks a spark that separates themselves from the competition that beat our weekly ratings night in and night out. For anyone who believes the APW is the premier promotion in the entire world, well you’re wrong. The APW is good; it’s damn good, but it has solely turned it’s back on finding valuable contenders worthy of my time, providing me jokes and punch lines with guys like Jesse Nunez—and then more guys who can’t even beat Jesse Nunez. The entrance of stupidity is here; and the APW is merely walking in and out that revolving door—not realizing that they’re going no where fast by doing so.
The APW has relied on me for everything. It has relied on me to beat punks like Biggs whose mouth is much larger then his pay rate. It relies on me to build stars, by screwing me over by my booking schedule in hopes to turn the tide against me—and it relies on me to be the selling point of their product, the main-attraction that brings talent here just to get the chance to compete with me. The thing is though; people do not want to be the underdog. People do not want to be the second in command. Everyone wants to be a star, a main-eventer and a world champion—and I do more to hurt the APW then I do to help it.
Sure, I’m the last bit of credibility President Jeff has. And sure; publicity for me is good publicity for the APW, but when it comes to guys like you Biggs—when it comes to new blood, I scare them off. I send them back to E-Zfederation where they can become the X-core champion of the mega free world with little to no effort. Case in point, Biggs. I don’t know where you come from—but wherever you come from you were a world champion. A top dog. A main-attraction, yet you make the move to the APW and you quickly find you aren’t worth shit. Not because this place is oozing with talent, but simply because you don’t’ match up with me in any sense of the word. Your accomplishments become laughable, your talent becomes questionable—and we come to the conclusion that it was all a farce, a large white lie.
See, Biggs. People like you; people like Jesse Nunez—you people make me look bad. You people make me look pathetic. My critics look at me and try to shit on my accomplishments every day of the week, and guys like you manage to give them a field day! Sure, I’m the APW world champion—but when our contenders can’t hold their head above the shallow end of the pool in the expert’s big back yard, it makes my accomplishment look like shit. You undermine my image, just by displaying your own. Your poor performances, your empty promises, your ranting and your fucking raving, means nothing if you can’t back it up.
That’s all your about, Biggs. You feel as if you can run your mouth and nobody will hold you accountable for what you say. You make guarantee after guarantee and you sign checks your talent can never seem to cash in. When are you going to wake up and smell that these roses peddle nothing but shit? When the fuck are you going to realize that hitting your opponent with a few shots to the face, slipping a few cool maneuvers in, means absolutely NOTHING if you are pinned to the mat for three seconds when it’s all said and done?
The truth is, I don’t know the answers to any of the questions I have just asked. The truth is, until you separate yourself from the view of blind eyes the seek the way of ignorance; you’ll never realize the big picture. You will never be able to live up to your full potential for you believe you are already and beyond your skill comprehension. You will never look at me and realize that you are inferior every step of the way, and as long as you live—you’ll never be as good as me. Though to keep things fair and balanced, every other yellow bellied competitor to have ever stepped in the ring with me for the past year has felt the same way.
Biggs, although you have created a fancy demeanor for us all to be fooled by—let it be known the real you is still there with you deep within your skin. You may not realize it—hell, I may as well be just making this up, but somewhere the real Biggs exists. The Biggs we know today is merely a man who believes his own hype; he has branded himself with a foolish gimmick and has sincerely believed he is one with his own creation. It’s a shame we may never be granted the chance to know the real Biggs…I’m sure the real Biggs would be a huge fan of Level-One. So much so; in between matches he’d ask Level-One for advice. You know like on how to win a match, how to be more effective in the ring—and if I had been kind enough, I’d tell him to go away—find someone else to pander, which is so much more honorable then ‘’fuck off you talent less shit’’ I would’ve been dying to say.
Unfortunately, I must deal with Biggs alter ego. A self serving man who thinks he has everything to the world to offer and more. And while Biggs will never admit it; he’ll realize he has lost once I’m through with him. The success he manages to brag about our match will consist of how long he lasted, or how close to the edge he pushed me—seemingly forgetting about the end result. That one thing that separates me from himself….
Winning.
Biggs only knows winning to a certain extent. The extent of having a weak and feeble opponent whom you were projected to beat before the match had even been arranged. Having an opponent who while they brought their bodies to the ring, they no showed with their heart and skill set their brains fooled them into believing they had. Biggs success has come merely from circumstance—his standing in the wrestling industry is on par with discarded soil on the earth’s surface. Biggs is nobody, he’s nothing—nothing more than a tax write off when the T slip comes rolling through the mail.
As for the man that is Biggs himself? While I respect his demeanor and his ability to be out spoken with little regard for lash-back, Biggs is nothing more then a greedy, spoiled and unfocused little child. Biggs style can be mimicked without though, his promos and production quality is undesirable as the thousands of men who have fostered it before us. This is the year 2009; Biggs can come out to a fucking UFO over his head, but he can’t get the drift that in-ring promos are worn out and only half effective if you are BDC with too much fucking time on his hands?
Biggs, this is the biggest match of your life—yet I doubt you can remain focused. Your too busy running down the weekly events on the microphone week in and week out, dropping anyone’s and everyone’s name along the way hoping to pass time to realize the threat that your opponent poses weather it be minor or major. This is because you have no focus, no main goal; you move on the limb week to week, you have no fucking ambition.
Biggs, the world isn’t out to get you. There will be no fowl play in our match outcome. I will pin your shoulders to the mat—just like Jay Phoenix did when you tried to step out the realms of an APW ring and quickly savored a taste on what I come across on a regular basis. The question is, are you going to take your loss like a man? Are you going to realize that Level-One is much larger then hype? Are you going to finally realize why I am here, in the main-event--and why you’re stinking it up in the ring with the likes of Jesse Nunez unsuccessfully?
I doubt it; but I believe that one day, you will.
It had felt as if there had been a shift in the universe and everything wrong about the world suddenly felt right. Sure, kids in Africa were still starving and sure orphanages grew in size, and sure the death, rape, and theft rate was on the up rise within the cities core—but I had won back the APW world championship, I saved a promotion that had been threatened by a man who wasn’t fit to carry the strap and suddenly the worlds problems quickly drifted away, even if they had only fled momentarily.
For the first night in a long time I had managed to sleep throughout with little to no disturbance along the way. I had no nightmares; and I’ve never had a dream—it was quite frankly one of the most refreshing things I had felt in a long time. And laying in my bed, I couldn’t help but stare at the APW world championship that hugged a coat rack. It smiled back at me, my name engraved in its gold plate—signifying that it was mine and mine only, and nobody was going to take that away from me.
I slipped out of bed my shirtless tattered skin exposed to anyone who dared to watch me. I spread open the curtains and immediately the sun crept through my window, blinding me momentarily. I quickly shut the curtains and looked back over to the rack which held my world championship, and thought about what I had just noticed. I hate the glow of the sun…
Yet I love the glow of the championship.
It was funny how that works. I grabbed the world championship, and tossed it over my shoulder before making my way out the room. With each step I took to descend down the stair case, the image had pounded my head over and over again—and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t forget the moment in time I beat Pence Weather light and saved an entire world from the atrocity the man would’ve committed should he had held onto the championship one second longer.
But as time went on; the images became blurred. As time went on; the championship lost its glow—and a scent, it had gotten stronger. It had clung to the fine hairs in my nostrils, nearly taunting me with the smell of death.
‘’What the fuck is that smell?’’ I asked myself.
I followed the scent—which had threatened to serve as my demise. And the closer I got; the faster I ran. The hall way was long, my penthouse was as large as any, and as I got to the front door, thrusting it opened I saw a plastic bag lying in the floor which had best been described as fire ball. Not too far away from it laid a small note which had entailed;
Lester Only,
Your world may smell like roses now—but when it all burns everything you ever had, known, or loved will be gone forever
With a twisted look of disgust on my face I quickly shut the door.
‘’Ah, fuck’’ I cursed. ‘’Someone left a burning pile of shit on my doorstep…’’
…it was more then just a prank.
Downtown had been the life of this city, and it came to life when the sun fell below the horizon and the night hung over the city, taunting the inhabitants below with a goodnight. The countless lights around the city made it easy to maneuver around and even harder to exploit. Still, girls with skirts too low for their fathers to get high off in pride walked the streets in groups because they followed the ‘’better safe then sorry’’ philosophy that already had they banged a few times in the back of the street car bus. Speaking of which, it’s how I got here.
Besides the penthouse, I didn’t live too lavishly. Most of my money had been outside of the bank and hidden underground where only my closest friends would benefit from my gains—but then I realized I had no friends and nobody would ever benefit from me leaving the face of this planet anytime soon, and so I digged it back up again, and have it locked in the safe, my memory swallowing the key.
So why was I here you ask? Patricia Lewis awaited me an upscale restaurant; it wasn’t’ a date as much as it was an appointment, so I hadn’t been dressed too fancy. A pair of black pants and a white shirt which did nothing to hide my career as a wrestler—but by now everyone knew who I was. The bakery man whom I pass on my way to the restaurant.
‘’Hola!’’
To the four girls wearing skirts that begged them to be raped…
‘’Isn’t he the guy on television?’’
To the young teenage boy, who see’s me, and doesn’t even dare to take the opportunity to hound me for an autograph; I can’t help but smile for that one.
‘’Smart kid’’ I whisper.
It was a nice restaurant; the best you could find in the city, without flying overseas to Paris for some odd delicacy—yet, it wasn’t for me. But Patricia she was a women of great worth, she was smart, she was intelligent—and something made me take lengths and liberties I otherwise wouldn’t have with any other girl.
But this restaurant…it was filled with the snobbiest people you could find. They cared only about their money, their social status amongst the ladder. They wore suits, fancy dresses and ties—and one woman even had the gull to gawk my attire. A waitress led me to a table where Patricia sat—her hair done up for the special occasion, she wore a dress but nothing too over the top. She wasn’t rich by any means, and I had been footing the bill, anyhow.
‘’You look nice’’ Patricia teased as I took a seat at the table.
‘’Thanks’’ I replied feverishly. Patricia stared at me, as if I was supposed to have any more to say, and so I returned a blank stare.
‘’Well…’’ Patricia pushed on impatiently.
‘’Right, how are you doing?’’ I asked. Patricia rolled her eyes and sighed deeply.
‘’I’m doing alright’’ Patricia replies in monotone, as she shakes off her disappointment. ‘’I’m just glad we get to spend time with each-other…’’
I nodded my head casually. ‘’Yeah, it’s cool to just hang out’’
Patricia raised her eye brow. ‘’Hang out?’’ She questioned me with agitation shooting through her voice; I looked up at her like a lost puppy. ‘’I think you have taken too many chair shots the skull’’ Patricia shot back.
‘’Speaking of which…’’ I started off. ‘’Man, does it feel good to be APW world champion again. You know, I didn’t know how much I missed that thing until I lost it’’
‘’Seriously?’’ Patricia says, her voice jumping up an octave.
‘’Yeah, I feel like I’m on the top of the world right now. Three world titles in less then a week? That’s unheard of’’ I bragged. ‘’I think I have found the spark I had been missing for all this time. Don’t you see? I don’t need to step out of the ring. I still have it. I’m not losing it. I never lost it’’
‘’We haven’t spoke in two weeks!’’ Patricia shot back, this time I realized—that perhaps I missed the concept of this specific meeting. ''A few weeks ago, we were almost killed. And do you know I haven't stopped receiving death threats since? Yet, you allow me to walk out that door, you fail to offer me any security because your too busy with your career'' Patricia ranted. In panic, I had turned my head and watched a couple coiled together as one before focusing back onto Patricia
This was a date.
‘’You know Lester that I have been trying to help you out with the problems you’ve had in and outside that ring—and this is how you thank me for it? You turn your back on all the advice, all our talks, everything!’’ Patricia eyes sharpened. ‘’Tell me, were you EVER serious about slowing down? Sticking to one company, one tour schedule, and really sitting back long enough to live your life?’’
I didn’t know how to answer that; I couldn’t answer that.
‘’Then that’s all I need to know’’ Patricia said rising to her feet; her pretty face boiling with the blood beneath her pores.
‘’Wait’’ I protested—but my effort wasn’t appreciated. Patricia Lewis turned back once more, and that would be the last time I thought I’d see her face, or hear her words…
‘’By the way, good luck with Biggs’’ Patricia snarled, exiting the restaurant leaving me alone.
For the second it took for her to leave; for her to let out a vicious scream that paralyzed me from my neck down, and for a car tires to screech along the pavement for an urgent getaway—it had made for the longest minute of my life. The minutes seemed as if they turned into hours—and the hours quickly became an eternity.
The smell of the flaming bag of shit turned my stomach once again. Its smell re-introduced itself to my nostrils driving me sick to my stomach taunting me with what I had, and now with what I had lost...
Patricia Lewis was gone.
So you lazy arm chaired bookers decided to give me Biggs as an opponent this week? To be honest; I’m not ecstatic about this match up, partly due to the fact that I have nothing to gain from it. It’s pointless, it proves nothing—and at the end of the day Biggs will take the loss on the brunt of his bruised shoulders and broken bones and somehow twists it into a win through the filthy words that his tongue allows him to spew on a weekly basis. Are we seriously led to believe, this fucking nobody, this glorified mid card punching bag, actually stands a chance against a man of my stature?
I think the problem with opponents like these, tossed onto my plate week after week—is solely based off the fact that the APW lacks talent. The APW lacks a spark that separates themselves from the competition that beat our weekly ratings night in and night out. For anyone who believes the APW is the premier promotion in the entire world, well you’re wrong. The APW is good; it’s damn good, but it has solely turned it’s back on finding valuable contenders worthy of my time, providing me jokes and punch lines with guys like Jesse Nunez—and then more guys who can’t even beat Jesse Nunez. The entrance of stupidity is here; and the APW is merely walking in and out that revolving door—not realizing that they’re going no where fast by doing so.
The APW has relied on me for everything. It has relied on me to beat punks like Biggs whose mouth is much larger then his pay rate. It relies on me to build stars, by screwing me over by my booking schedule in hopes to turn the tide against me—and it relies on me to be the selling point of their product, the main-attraction that brings talent here just to get the chance to compete with me. The thing is though; people do not want to be the underdog. People do not want to be the second in command. Everyone wants to be a star, a main-eventer and a world champion—and I do more to hurt the APW then I do to help it.
Sure, I’m the last bit of credibility President Jeff has. And sure; publicity for me is good publicity for the APW, but when it comes to guys like you Biggs—when it comes to new blood, I scare them off. I send them back to E-Zfederation where they can become the X-core champion of the mega free world with little to no effort. Case in point, Biggs. I don’t know where you come from—but wherever you come from you were a world champion. A top dog. A main-attraction, yet you make the move to the APW and you quickly find you aren’t worth shit. Not because this place is oozing with talent, but simply because you don’t’ match up with me in any sense of the word. Your accomplishments become laughable, your talent becomes questionable—and we come to the conclusion that it was all a farce, a large white lie.
See, Biggs. People like you; people like Jesse Nunez—you people make me look bad. You people make me look pathetic. My critics look at me and try to shit on my accomplishments every day of the week, and guys like you manage to give them a field day! Sure, I’m the APW world champion—but when our contenders can’t hold their head above the shallow end of the pool in the expert’s big back yard, it makes my accomplishment look like shit. You undermine my image, just by displaying your own. Your poor performances, your empty promises, your ranting and your fucking raving, means nothing if you can’t back it up.
That’s all your about, Biggs. You feel as if you can run your mouth and nobody will hold you accountable for what you say. You make guarantee after guarantee and you sign checks your talent can never seem to cash in. When are you going to wake up and smell that these roses peddle nothing but shit? When the fuck are you going to realize that hitting your opponent with a few shots to the face, slipping a few cool maneuvers in, means absolutely NOTHING if you are pinned to the mat for three seconds when it’s all said and done?
The truth is, I don’t know the answers to any of the questions I have just asked. The truth is, until you separate yourself from the view of blind eyes the seek the way of ignorance; you’ll never realize the big picture. You will never be able to live up to your full potential for you believe you are already and beyond your skill comprehension. You will never look at me and realize that you are inferior every step of the way, and as long as you live—you’ll never be as good as me. Though to keep things fair and balanced, every other yellow bellied competitor to have ever stepped in the ring with me for the past year has felt the same way.
Biggs, although you have created a fancy demeanor for us all to be fooled by—let it be known the real you is still there with you deep within your skin. You may not realize it—hell, I may as well be just making this up, but somewhere the real Biggs exists. The Biggs we know today is merely a man who believes his own hype; he has branded himself with a foolish gimmick and has sincerely believed he is one with his own creation. It’s a shame we may never be granted the chance to know the real Biggs…I’m sure the real Biggs would be a huge fan of Level-One. So much so; in between matches he’d ask Level-One for advice. You know like on how to win a match, how to be more effective in the ring—and if I had been kind enough, I’d tell him to go away—find someone else to pander, which is so much more honorable then ‘’fuck off you talent less shit’’ I would’ve been dying to say.
Unfortunately, I must deal with Biggs alter ego. A self serving man who thinks he has everything to the world to offer and more. And while Biggs will never admit it; he’ll realize he has lost once I’m through with him. The success he manages to brag about our match will consist of how long he lasted, or how close to the edge he pushed me—seemingly forgetting about the end result. That one thing that separates me from himself….
Winning.
Biggs only knows winning to a certain extent. The extent of having a weak and feeble opponent whom you were projected to beat before the match had even been arranged. Having an opponent who while they brought their bodies to the ring, they no showed with their heart and skill set their brains fooled them into believing they had. Biggs success has come merely from circumstance—his standing in the wrestling industry is on par with discarded soil on the earth’s surface. Biggs is nobody, he’s nothing—nothing more than a tax write off when the T slip comes rolling through the mail.
As for the man that is Biggs himself? While I respect his demeanor and his ability to be out spoken with little regard for lash-back, Biggs is nothing more then a greedy, spoiled and unfocused little child. Biggs style can be mimicked without though, his promos and production quality is undesirable as the thousands of men who have fostered it before us. This is the year 2009; Biggs can come out to a fucking UFO over his head, but he can’t get the drift that in-ring promos are worn out and only half effective if you are BDC with too much fucking time on his hands?
Biggs, this is the biggest match of your life—yet I doubt you can remain focused. Your too busy running down the weekly events on the microphone week in and week out, dropping anyone’s and everyone’s name along the way hoping to pass time to realize the threat that your opponent poses weather it be minor or major. This is because you have no focus, no main goal; you move on the limb week to week, you have no fucking ambition.
Biggs, the world isn’t out to get you. There will be no fowl play in our match outcome. I will pin your shoulders to the mat—just like Jay Phoenix did when you tried to step out the realms of an APW ring and quickly savored a taste on what I come across on a regular basis. The question is, are you going to take your loss like a man? Are you going to realize that Level-One is much larger then hype? Are you going to finally realize why I am here, in the main-event--and why you’re stinking it up in the ring with the likes of Jesse Nunez unsuccessfully?
I doubt it; but I believe that one day, you will.
