Post by "The Hottest Shit Going" on Jan 8, 2009 1:52:37 GMT -4
Another story narrated by the Hottest Shit Going, Michael Lively.
Chapter ONE
The sun is shinning, and the warmth from that huge ball of fire can be felt. It bakes on the pinkish pale skin of a pig. Thats right I said a pig. A real life bonified pig, with the snort ring in his nostrils, fat belly, and clacking hooves on the ground. You see folks this is no ordinary pig, no Babe, or Wilmer from Charlotte's Web, this pig is Danny. Now he might hold the fame of the other pigs, but the skills Danny possesses exceed that from the average acting pig.
Now it's no real secret that the life of a pig isn't pleasant. Rolling through mud, eating from the ground, and waiting to become someones breakfast bacon. Now moving to Hollywood, and starring in movie and television gets you a slight break from the slaughterhouse. You see like all actors the clock runs out, and you will eventually squeal that final squeal. You back straps will be cut out, chopped up, you feet pickled, and your ears flavored for dogs to gnaw on.
Film isn't the only escape, you see Danny got a ticket of another kind. This puffy porker is a maverick, an innovator. You see folks Danny is an underground pig fighter. Thats right, and it was hard to believe for me as well. Dangerous Danny Porkmiester as he is known in the underground circuit, is one hell of a fighting pig. He is a brawler, biter, and packs a nasty hooves stomp. The world of underground fighting for pigs is a select market. The scene is still ruled by chickens, but with the recent arrest of Michael Vick, the dog circuit has died down. This loss for one market is the gain for another. In fact this week end Dangerous Danny Porkmiseter will be battling it out with two other pigs in a kill or be porked fight for the undisputed pig championship. All his life he was told, you either become a superstar of film, or get plumped up and win a ribbon at the fair to have your shot at fame. Danny always had dreams of a different kind, and soon his dream will be fulfilled. Instead of becoming bacon, this vicious porker sends others to the butcher shop.
So when you are in a restaurant, or sitting down for breakfast. Take a long hard look at that bacon you will soon shove inside your mouth. Stare upon it and wonder. Wonder if Dangerous Danny Porkmiester fulfilled his dream. Is this a victim of the most brutal pig in history, or....has another steeped up to take the throne. Is that crispy piece of heaven poor Dangerous Danny Porkmiester?
Chapter ONE'S (It's kind of like chapter two...but...you know what I don't have to explain anything to you...just read)
There is a awkward sense of insecurity in the air. Tension is thick, and can be sliced with a knife. God that sounds so stupid, but if it paints the picture then great. The sound of a butcher knife dragging across a sharpening stone fills silence clouding the room. On the chopping block lays the lifeless body of a chicken. It's neck stretched out, and tongue hanging from it's beak. The eyes of this chicken have those carton like X's on them as if the chicken almost dead. The butcher then turns toward the fowl, and chuckles. He grabs up his knife, holds it high into the air, for this is his favorite part of the job.
I mean how wouldn't get off on be heading a chicken. I mean he will soon provide some American family some much needed nourishment, all while tasting ever so sweet. Yes a chicken dinner soothes the soul. Now getting to the nitty gritty of the situation, to make this service complete, our butcher must hack off the head of this chicken. He must perform the horror act of all chicken, rooster, and possibly turkey's as well. Seeing that we are talking about a chicken, fuck turkey's. Now like it was stated before this butcher enjoys this part of the job. Plucking the chicken is a shitty job, skinning it can be grueling, but thumping that son of a bitch on the head with a mallet could be a second runner up to the beheading. You see the butcher nabs the chicken up, grabbing a mallet. He watches it closely, checking it's every move. Begin to study it's patterns, time it's actions, and plan a strike. Just then, in an instant it happens. The thud of the mallet crashing into the chicken's skull, and the dropping of it's body.
The butcher then picks the things up by it's beak, not to bruise any part of the meat. He then carefully places the young tender clucker on the chopping block. Positions his neck, and then sharpens his knife. An every five minute routine for the butcher. Now the time has come, his daily orgasm of sorts. The blade shimmers in the light, as he slams it down to the board. His eyes closed just as he hits, and a pause. This is the moment the sick fuck savor's. He slowly will open his eyes ready to see the squirt of blood. As he does, nothing. Just his blade stuck into the cutting board. Shocked the butch turns around looking for the chicken.
A clucking can be heard inside the room. "Here Chicky-Chicky" calls the butcher as he trades his knife for the mallet. He thinks to himself what a tough chicken this was. He knows he nailed it on the sweet spot. The butcher expecting a slightly retarded chicken any second to wobble out from hiding, after mixing his brain into mush with the precession mallet strike. Just then the keen butcher hears another cluck. He positions himself with the mallet in the air, and then yanks the cabinet from the wall. There stands the chicken, starring at the man. His eyes crossed, and head slightly lopsided. The butcher smirks at the sad sight, but thinks to himself "At least his meat is unbruised". The chicken takes a step forward, and the butcher looks at him. The chicken then steps back, and begins to start coughing, and choking. The butcher lowers his mallet, thinking the end is near. The damage has happened. The brain trauma must be to severe. Blood must be spilling into his body.
Now the butcher sets the mallet on the counter, and pulls up a stool. He plants his ass in it to watch the slow death of this chicken. The clucker still hacking and choking then yaks on the floor. The butcher turns his head. Who knew the man riddled with blood and guts, doesn't like the sight of vomit. The chicken then sticks it's beak into it's own mess, and begins pecking around. Just then he comes up with a razor blade in his beak. The butcher then looks back at the now armed chicken.
Surprised at what he saw the butcher then picks up his mallet. The two exchange looks, well the best they can with a cross eyed, slightly ugly chicken. His feather ruffle, as the grip of the butchers clamps down tight on his mallet. The butcher moves in for a strike, lifting the mallet, and dropping it down. The chicken spins to the side, flaps a few times. The clucker flips into the air, and pecks the razor blade right into the butchers throat hitting the jugular vein. Blood begins to spill as the chicken slowly hits the ground on his feet. The butcher hits his knees as he bleeds out. He then flops forward loosing his grip on the mallet. The chicken shakes it's feather a bit, and wobbles off.
Just then Michael Lively closes a book. The man seated in a chair, places the book on a table next to him. He then takes a glass of water, and puts to his lips. He takes a much needed drink to wet his throat after the narration of the stories. The man looks into the camera fixed on him, with a rather serious look as if about to begin a typical Michael Lively ego filled rant.
Lively: Well, I'm sure your wondering what exactly is going on. What was all that story telling about, and what does it have to do with my upcoming match with Level One...not a god damn thing.
I pause for a moment taking in an egotistical breath to fuel my self confident lungs.
Lively: So for this promo segment, I figured I would take a different approach. You see this guy Level One has been all over the world. Wrestled almost everyone, except ME. Well there is a first time for everything. Lively vs Level One...a first, and a first time for the beloved superstar to loose in APW. To fall by the hands of the JESUS. Thats right, I have beaten people in the past that have been dubbed unbeatable. Justin Job tore through this company beating the shit out of everyone. People didn't think he was really all that, underestimated him, and payed for it, including myself. During a triple threat for the Overdrive title he got the better of the JESUS. Although one on one, he fell just like many have, once Michael Lively steps into the ring. I carried that title with pride, for fucks sake I put that title on the map. Simply put I made that title what it is. It was created as an entry level belt, a starting point, a launch pad for superstars. I brought so much attention to that title, skyrocketed it to the main stream, the main event.
The list goes on and on, Doctor Phate fell to the JESUS, and simply high tailed it out of APW with his skirt flapping in the wind. Many of female wrestlers that were something special other places, realized this is APW, and the house ruled by JESUS. Thats right, Kenny Lamabrdo, Sabur, Spirit, Dianna Steele, Vin E Lambardo, Twister.....and on and on. Hell we could trade wrap sheets all day. I'm great, your great, blah-blah. Frankly this match is PPV quality, but the bookers seem to need the ratings boost for Overdrive. So it will be.
Another camera angle comes to life, shooting me from the side. Pretty much make me look more rugged then I already look.
Lively: Now back to tonight, and this silly, boring, useless filler I threw in here prior to getting to the meat and potatoes. You see I was going to have the camera watch me write in my Hannah Montana journal as some deep voiced stud did the narration. As that plan was unfolding, my balls suddenly hooped out of my pants and slapped me in the face. Those manly nuts looked me right in the eyes and proclaimed " Listen fuck stick..you are no fag...no queer, and no god damn lilly ass bitch who write in a journal". So after the prep talk with my ultra big balls, I came to my senses. We took a different route, another approach. Thats right, I mocked his long drawn out promo style. You know the type were he subjects you the faithful fans that tune every week to hear us rant, rave, pound our chests, and take you on a ripping ride of our lives in this business. Now some are entertaining, while other Erh-Level-Argh-One-haaha...excuse me, just needed to clear my throat.
Now week in week out you get a look into the life of this superstar...wait a minute...fuck that...he is no superstar. He's a genius, a talented writer, producer, and athlete. Thats right, this mega star not only can get down inside that ring, but he also writes his own segments, produces his bits, and if even humanly possible he would work the camera while filming himself. The level of stroking this ONES cock is un-ending. This truly is the best man in the sport of wrestling today....hell entertainment in general.
Now this is where I'm praying to myself, cause I am the JESUS, that indeed a butcher would jump out of that book, crack me in the head with his mallet. You has to be the biggest load of horse shit to ever leave my mouth. Level One...may be good, but he's not great, nor is he the best. Many have stepped to me claiming to be just that. Then five minutes later they quit the fed, leave the sport, move to Japan, and get put over there by the slant eyed, retards of the east. You see this is the creme of the crop. The top of the fucking food chain. I knew that coming in, and have stayed here. While others come claiming to be the shit elsewhere, then getting the dog snot beat out of them, all while me and the other APW roster smile as the trail of shit falls from their pants legs on the way out.
You Level One seem to be a little different. You have been here for awhile, had some impressive matches, if you call fighting Link impressive. I mean when your a mid card, jobbed out, rusty, talentless fuck, and you fight some guy who was propped up by every company he was ever in, thats match of the year quality if you ask me.
Excuse me, while await another mallet shot. Listen you were the man in EWC, beat alot of people.... alot of people that didn't make the cut to be APW. I'm APW, through and through. Now that place has fallen like a man struck with cancer. I'm no medical expert, but I would come to the hypothesis that you Level One were that cancer. You have now spread here to my home. Well the APW is healthy, full of life, and doesn't take kindly to plaguing wrestler like you. Doctor Phate found that out, as did others, along with Connor O'Rielly.
So I'm going to tonight inject myself in the situation. I going to be the prescription for the APW, the keemo therapy that will chip away at the cancer before it latches on, embedding itself in the lymph-nodes. I will radiate you before all is lost. You will not bring the APW down like you did to the EWC. My goal, to ensure that you never hold gold here. The main way to do so, is royally kick your ass tonight. Fuck you up so bad, expose you for the over inflated, weakling that you really are. You can buy a Honda Accord. Drop a brand new supercharged motor into it. Spend thousands on a custom paint job, throw the same amount into interior and sound system. In turn make on hell of a pimped out ride...but at the end of the day...it's still a Honda Accord.
I'm a classic muscle car, with real horsepower, and lasting impressions. The real deal in a world of fakes. They don't make them like this anymore. Level One, no mater how much magic dust is sprinkled on you, or who has propped you up, it will all come falling down, exposed for what you really are...second to ME. If you dream of being the man, I suggest you tuck tail like all the others, and head for another home. This one already has a franchise face...Michael Mother Fucking Lively!
You on a weekly basis, bore the fans with you segments, and promos. I mean seriously that kind of stuff is great for authors, or publishers, or even the big screen. This though my friend is wrestling, the fans are simple minded, and get lost with drawn out spots. In fact since I am mocking you with my promo this week I probably lost people about thirty two minutes ago. Good god man...the poor bastard that has to write out the script for your shit....his carpal tunnel must be kicking real hard. The hand cramps in full effect.
Simply put Level One...this isn't the library, we aren't in literature class. There is no room for small films in APW, we have a show to run. This week we will surely loose a ton of viewers due to the fact that there will be not just one long drawn out promo this week, but two mind fucking, eye bulging useless work of shit that seem to never end. Thats right, I say fuck it. In the long run, which I mean extremly long run, it will be worth it. The point will be made one way or another. I will face you in that ring, make you pay for the snooze fests you bring to the table. No longer will the fans be forced to fast forward your spots, no longer will the poor schmuck have to type out twenty page scripts as you verbalize them to him.
Tonight all the bullshit you bring to the table ends, tonight you find out what this place really is. APW...a place where wrestling matters. Pigs, Chickens, don't fucking mater. These fans don't tune in to be bothered with your fucking bore-a-palooza. The want to see people beat the shit out of each other. They wish to hear some vulgar language, watch me kick a bitch right in her twat. Well Level One, if you have a chance to leave the creative, entertainment coma that you are in for just three seconds...I would like to knock you the fuck out, get the win, and move on with my life. This surely will be the lowest moment of my career. I face a man that means nothing to me. A man that I think shouldn't even be in this sport, but down at the cafe' reading poetry, or making films for festivals. Either way, you shouldn't be in my ring, in my fed, or even facing ME.
So it will happen, the bell will ring. I'll put you over for a bit like I do all people. Thats right...I will make you look good, let you get a few shots in, put you over for a bit, then CRACK...put you down with the heavenly super kick. I will climb those ropes, whip out the godly cock, begin to piss all over you broken unconscious body, then flip a Prelude out. Stand tall, count with the ref, spitting on your lame ass with every count. The bell will ring, and the JESUS will once again beat the unbeatable. Put down the next big thing in APW, and the powers that be will know that they truly have a fucking legend on their hands...the JESUS. Thats right....Michael Lively will one more time piss on a mans dreams, and shit on his career.
This time though will seriously be different. I will be doing you a favor. Deep down in that heart of yours you know that I am better then you. You also know that you are avoiding your true calling. The stages of Broadway are calling, they wish to have that creativity that Level One puts forth. The creativity that people sitting behind a computer all day thrive to witness. You know the type, the fat, sloppy fucks that imagine they are something they really aren't. Well sunshine, I'm the real deal. I'm no aspiring actor, or building a movie, or screenplay. I'm a simple sick fuck that loves crude humor, and breaking peoples teeth. Some Level One, tonight you get the new nicknames Uncle gummer, and I get your spot...a spot that should have went to ME.
APW will loose interest in you, still over look me, all while the fans boo the fact the JESUS of APW...is truly the Hottest Shit Going....and Level One...is the biggest Shit Bag to ever enter the fed. You can eat a dick and die for all I care. I will surely do what I do inside the ring. because....
SORRY FOR THE INTERRUPTION, BUT THE PREVIOUS PROMO WAS ONLY ALLOTTED A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF TIME. AS WE SPEAK MICHAEL LIVELY IS STILL DRONING ON ABOUT WHAT HE WILL DO, HOW GREAT HE IS. WE HERE AT APW CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH, THE BORE FEST ENDS NOW, HAS GONE ON LONG ENOUGH. BESIDES WE HAVE TO SAVE ROOM FOR THE OVERLY EXTENDED REBUTLE OF THE MAN WE CALL LEVEL ONE! LIVELY HAS SUCKED ENOUGH LIFE OUT OF YOU, AND SOME MUST BE LEFT FOR THE NAIL IN THE COFFIN THAT LEVEL ONE BRINGS. THANK YOU AND STAY TUNED FOR THE GREATNESS THAT IS LEVEL ONE!
Chapter ONE
The sun is shinning, and the warmth from that huge ball of fire can be felt. It bakes on the pinkish pale skin of a pig. Thats right I said a pig. A real life bonified pig, with the snort ring in his nostrils, fat belly, and clacking hooves on the ground. You see folks this is no ordinary pig, no Babe, or Wilmer from Charlotte's Web, this pig is Danny. Now he might hold the fame of the other pigs, but the skills Danny possesses exceed that from the average acting pig.
Now it's no real secret that the life of a pig isn't pleasant. Rolling through mud, eating from the ground, and waiting to become someones breakfast bacon. Now moving to Hollywood, and starring in movie and television gets you a slight break from the slaughterhouse. You see like all actors the clock runs out, and you will eventually squeal that final squeal. You back straps will be cut out, chopped up, you feet pickled, and your ears flavored for dogs to gnaw on.
Film isn't the only escape, you see Danny got a ticket of another kind. This puffy porker is a maverick, an innovator. You see folks Danny is an underground pig fighter. Thats right, and it was hard to believe for me as well. Dangerous Danny Porkmiester as he is known in the underground circuit, is one hell of a fighting pig. He is a brawler, biter, and packs a nasty hooves stomp. The world of underground fighting for pigs is a select market. The scene is still ruled by chickens, but with the recent arrest of Michael Vick, the dog circuit has died down. This loss for one market is the gain for another. In fact this week end Dangerous Danny Porkmiseter will be battling it out with two other pigs in a kill or be porked fight for the undisputed pig championship. All his life he was told, you either become a superstar of film, or get plumped up and win a ribbon at the fair to have your shot at fame. Danny always had dreams of a different kind, and soon his dream will be fulfilled. Instead of becoming bacon, this vicious porker sends others to the butcher shop.
So when you are in a restaurant, or sitting down for breakfast. Take a long hard look at that bacon you will soon shove inside your mouth. Stare upon it and wonder. Wonder if Dangerous Danny Porkmiester fulfilled his dream. Is this a victim of the most brutal pig in history, or....has another steeped up to take the throne. Is that crispy piece of heaven poor Dangerous Danny Porkmiester?
Chapter ONE'S (It's kind of like chapter two...but...you know what I don't have to explain anything to you...just read)
There is a awkward sense of insecurity in the air. Tension is thick, and can be sliced with a knife. God that sounds so stupid, but if it paints the picture then great. The sound of a butcher knife dragging across a sharpening stone fills silence clouding the room. On the chopping block lays the lifeless body of a chicken. It's neck stretched out, and tongue hanging from it's beak. The eyes of this chicken have those carton like X's on them as if the chicken almost dead. The butcher then turns toward the fowl, and chuckles. He grabs up his knife, holds it high into the air, for this is his favorite part of the job.
I mean how wouldn't get off on be heading a chicken. I mean he will soon provide some American family some much needed nourishment, all while tasting ever so sweet. Yes a chicken dinner soothes the soul. Now getting to the nitty gritty of the situation, to make this service complete, our butcher must hack off the head of this chicken. He must perform the horror act of all chicken, rooster, and possibly turkey's as well. Seeing that we are talking about a chicken, fuck turkey's. Now like it was stated before this butcher enjoys this part of the job. Plucking the chicken is a shitty job, skinning it can be grueling, but thumping that son of a bitch on the head with a mallet could be a second runner up to the beheading. You see the butcher nabs the chicken up, grabbing a mallet. He watches it closely, checking it's every move. Begin to study it's patterns, time it's actions, and plan a strike. Just then, in an instant it happens. The thud of the mallet crashing into the chicken's skull, and the dropping of it's body.
The butcher then picks the things up by it's beak, not to bruise any part of the meat. He then carefully places the young tender clucker on the chopping block. Positions his neck, and then sharpens his knife. An every five minute routine for the butcher. Now the time has come, his daily orgasm of sorts. The blade shimmers in the light, as he slams it down to the board. His eyes closed just as he hits, and a pause. This is the moment the sick fuck savor's. He slowly will open his eyes ready to see the squirt of blood. As he does, nothing. Just his blade stuck into the cutting board. Shocked the butch turns around looking for the chicken.
A clucking can be heard inside the room. "Here Chicky-Chicky" calls the butcher as he trades his knife for the mallet. He thinks to himself what a tough chicken this was. He knows he nailed it on the sweet spot. The butcher expecting a slightly retarded chicken any second to wobble out from hiding, after mixing his brain into mush with the precession mallet strike. Just then the keen butcher hears another cluck. He positions himself with the mallet in the air, and then yanks the cabinet from the wall. There stands the chicken, starring at the man. His eyes crossed, and head slightly lopsided. The butcher smirks at the sad sight, but thinks to himself "At least his meat is unbruised". The chicken takes a step forward, and the butcher looks at him. The chicken then steps back, and begins to start coughing, and choking. The butcher lowers his mallet, thinking the end is near. The damage has happened. The brain trauma must be to severe. Blood must be spilling into his body.
Now the butcher sets the mallet on the counter, and pulls up a stool. He plants his ass in it to watch the slow death of this chicken. The clucker still hacking and choking then yaks on the floor. The butcher turns his head. Who knew the man riddled with blood and guts, doesn't like the sight of vomit. The chicken then sticks it's beak into it's own mess, and begins pecking around. Just then he comes up with a razor blade in his beak. The butcher then looks back at the now armed chicken.
Surprised at what he saw the butcher then picks up his mallet. The two exchange looks, well the best they can with a cross eyed, slightly ugly chicken. His feather ruffle, as the grip of the butchers clamps down tight on his mallet. The butcher moves in for a strike, lifting the mallet, and dropping it down. The chicken spins to the side, flaps a few times. The clucker flips into the air, and pecks the razor blade right into the butchers throat hitting the jugular vein. Blood begins to spill as the chicken slowly hits the ground on his feet. The butcher hits his knees as he bleeds out. He then flops forward loosing his grip on the mallet. The chicken shakes it's feather a bit, and wobbles off.
Just then Michael Lively closes a book. The man seated in a chair, places the book on a table next to him. He then takes a glass of water, and puts to his lips. He takes a much needed drink to wet his throat after the narration of the stories. The man looks into the camera fixed on him, with a rather serious look as if about to begin a typical Michael Lively ego filled rant.
Lively: Well, I'm sure your wondering what exactly is going on. What was all that story telling about, and what does it have to do with my upcoming match with Level One...not a god damn thing.
I pause for a moment taking in an egotistical breath to fuel my self confident lungs.
Lively: So for this promo segment, I figured I would take a different approach. You see this guy Level One has been all over the world. Wrestled almost everyone, except ME. Well there is a first time for everything. Lively vs Level One...a first, and a first time for the beloved superstar to loose in APW. To fall by the hands of the JESUS. Thats right, I have beaten people in the past that have been dubbed unbeatable. Justin Job tore through this company beating the shit out of everyone. People didn't think he was really all that, underestimated him, and payed for it, including myself. During a triple threat for the Overdrive title he got the better of the JESUS. Although one on one, he fell just like many have, once Michael Lively steps into the ring. I carried that title with pride, for fucks sake I put that title on the map. Simply put I made that title what it is. It was created as an entry level belt, a starting point, a launch pad for superstars. I brought so much attention to that title, skyrocketed it to the main stream, the main event.
The list goes on and on, Doctor Phate fell to the JESUS, and simply high tailed it out of APW with his skirt flapping in the wind. Many of female wrestlers that were something special other places, realized this is APW, and the house ruled by JESUS. Thats right, Kenny Lamabrdo, Sabur, Spirit, Dianna Steele, Vin E Lambardo, Twister.....and on and on. Hell we could trade wrap sheets all day. I'm great, your great, blah-blah. Frankly this match is PPV quality, but the bookers seem to need the ratings boost for Overdrive. So it will be.
Another camera angle comes to life, shooting me from the side. Pretty much make me look more rugged then I already look.
Lively: Now back to tonight, and this silly, boring, useless filler I threw in here prior to getting to the meat and potatoes. You see I was going to have the camera watch me write in my Hannah Montana journal as some deep voiced stud did the narration. As that plan was unfolding, my balls suddenly hooped out of my pants and slapped me in the face. Those manly nuts looked me right in the eyes and proclaimed " Listen fuck stick..you are no fag...no queer, and no god damn lilly ass bitch who write in a journal". So after the prep talk with my ultra big balls, I came to my senses. We took a different route, another approach. Thats right, I mocked his long drawn out promo style. You know the type were he subjects you the faithful fans that tune every week to hear us rant, rave, pound our chests, and take you on a ripping ride of our lives in this business. Now some are entertaining, while other Erh-Level-Argh-One-haaha...excuse me, just needed to clear my throat.
Now week in week out you get a look into the life of this superstar...wait a minute...fuck that...he is no superstar. He's a genius, a talented writer, producer, and athlete. Thats right, this mega star not only can get down inside that ring, but he also writes his own segments, produces his bits, and if even humanly possible he would work the camera while filming himself. The level of stroking this ONES cock is un-ending. This truly is the best man in the sport of wrestling today....hell entertainment in general.
Now this is where I'm praying to myself, cause I am the JESUS, that indeed a butcher would jump out of that book, crack me in the head with his mallet. You has to be the biggest load of horse shit to ever leave my mouth. Level One...may be good, but he's not great, nor is he the best. Many have stepped to me claiming to be just that. Then five minutes later they quit the fed, leave the sport, move to Japan, and get put over there by the slant eyed, retards of the east. You see this is the creme of the crop. The top of the fucking food chain. I knew that coming in, and have stayed here. While others come claiming to be the shit elsewhere, then getting the dog snot beat out of them, all while me and the other APW roster smile as the trail of shit falls from their pants legs on the way out.
You Level One seem to be a little different. You have been here for awhile, had some impressive matches, if you call fighting Link impressive. I mean when your a mid card, jobbed out, rusty, talentless fuck, and you fight some guy who was propped up by every company he was ever in, thats match of the year quality if you ask me.
Excuse me, while await another mallet shot. Listen you were the man in EWC, beat alot of people.... alot of people that didn't make the cut to be APW. I'm APW, through and through. Now that place has fallen like a man struck with cancer. I'm no medical expert, but I would come to the hypothesis that you Level One were that cancer. You have now spread here to my home. Well the APW is healthy, full of life, and doesn't take kindly to plaguing wrestler like you. Doctor Phate found that out, as did others, along with Connor O'Rielly.
So I'm going to tonight inject myself in the situation. I going to be the prescription for the APW, the keemo therapy that will chip away at the cancer before it latches on, embedding itself in the lymph-nodes. I will radiate you before all is lost. You will not bring the APW down like you did to the EWC. My goal, to ensure that you never hold gold here. The main way to do so, is royally kick your ass tonight. Fuck you up so bad, expose you for the over inflated, weakling that you really are. You can buy a Honda Accord. Drop a brand new supercharged motor into it. Spend thousands on a custom paint job, throw the same amount into interior and sound system. In turn make on hell of a pimped out ride...but at the end of the day...it's still a Honda Accord.
I'm a classic muscle car, with real horsepower, and lasting impressions. The real deal in a world of fakes. They don't make them like this anymore. Level One, no mater how much magic dust is sprinkled on you, or who has propped you up, it will all come falling down, exposed for what you really are...second to ME. If you dream of being the man, I suggest you tuck tail like all the others, and head for another home. This one already has a franchise face...Michael Mother Fucking Lively!
You on a weekly basis, bore the fans with you segments, and promos. I mean seriously that kind of stuff is great for authors, or publishers, or even the big screen. This though my friend is wrestling, the fans are simple minded, and get lost with drawn out spots. In fact since I am mocking you with my promo this week I probably lost people about thirty two minutes ago. Good god man...the poor bastard that has to write out the script for your shit....his carpal tunnel must be kicking real hard. The hand cramps in full effect.
Simply put Level One...this isn't the library, we aren't in literature class. There is no room for small films in APW, we have a show to run. This week we will surely loose a ton of viewers due to the fact that there will be not just one long drawn out promo this week, but two mind fucking, eye bulging useless work of shit that seem to never end. Thats right, I say fuck it. In the long run, which I mean extremly long run, it will be worth it. The point will be made one way or another. I will face you in that ring, make you pay for the snooze fests you bring to the table. No longer will the fans be forced to fast forward your spots, no longer will the poor schmuck have to type out twenty page scripts as you verbalize them to him.
Tonight all the bullshit you bring to the table ends, tonight you find out what this place really is. APW...a place where wrestling matters. Pigs, Chickens, don't fucking mater. These fans don't tune in to be bothered with your fucking bore-a-palooza. The want to see people beat the shit out of each other. They wish to hear some vulgar language, watch me kick a bitch right in her twat. Well Level One, if you have a chance to leave the creative, entertainment coma that you are in for just three seconds...I would like to knock you the fuck out, get the win, and move on with my life. This surely will be the lowest moment of my career. I face a man that means nothing to me. A man that I think shouldn't even be in this sport, but down at the cafe' reading poetry, or making films for festivals. Either way, you shouldn't be in my ring, in my fed, or even facing ME.
So it will happen, the bell will ring. I'll put you over for a bit like I do all people. Thats right...I will make you look good, let you get a few shots in, put you over for a bit, then CRACK...put you down with the heavenly super kick. I will climb those ropes, whip out the godly cock, begin to piss all over you broken unconscious body, then flip a Prelude out. Stand tall, count with the ref, spitting on your lame ass with every count. The bell will ring, and the JESUS will once again beat the unbeatable. Put down the next big thing in APW, and the powers that be will know that they truly have a fucking legend on their hands...the JESUS. Thats right....Michael Lively will one more time piss on a mans dreams, and shit on his career.
This time though will seriously be different. I will be doing you a favor. Deep down in that heart of yours you know that I am better then you. You also know that you are avoiding your true calling. The stages of Broadway are calling, they wish to have that creativity that Level One puts forth. The creativity that people sitting behind a computer all day thrive to witness. You know the type, the fat, sloppy fucks that imagine they are something they really aren't. Well sunshine, I'm the real deal. I'm no aspiring actor, or building a movie, or screenplay. I'm a simple sick fuck that loves crude humor, and breaking peoples teeth. Some Level One, tonight you get the new nicknames Uncle gummer, and I get your spot...a spot that should have went to ME.
APW will loose interest in you, still over look me, all while the fans boo the fact the JESUS of APW...is truly the Hottest Shit Going....and Level One...is the biggest Shit Bag to ever enter the fed. You can eat a dick and die for all I care. I will surely do what I do inside the ring. because....
SORRY FOR THE INTERRUPTION, BUT THE PREVIOUS PROMO WAS ONLY ALLOTTED A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF TIME. AS WE SPEAK MICHAEL LIVELY IS STILL DRONING ON ABOUT WHAT HE WILL DO, HOW GREAT HE IS. WE HERE AT APW CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH, THE BORE FEST ENDS NOW, HAS GONE ON LONG ENOUGH. BESIDES WE HAVE TO SAVE ROOM FOR THE OVERLY EXTENDED REBUTLE OF THE MAN WE CALL LEVEL ONE! LIVELY HAS SUCKED ENOUGH LIFE OUT OF YOU, AND SOME MUST BE LEFT FOR THE NAIL IN THE COFFIN THAT LEVEL ONE BRINGS. THANK YOU AND STAY TUNED FOR THE GREATNESS THAT IS LEVEL ONE!
