Post by Level-Two on Jan 6, 2010 21:46:46 GMT -4
''One's'' Origin of a world championship...
The lookout
It's amazing how quick time flies by. Here I was, walking down a empty arena hallway, with a janitor trailing behind me, impatiently wiping my foot steps away with his old dusty mop. This, a sharp contrast the jam-packed arena that filled the building to it's capacity. All was silent, except the janitors soft humming, which was so harmonic it could put just about anyone to sleep where they stood.
''Aye, you mind gettin' to walkin?'' The janitor said sharply, as I shook my head free, and picked up my pace as I raced down the hall.
Still, my eyes captured the scene in front of me as if everything was going in slow motion. A new year loomed over my head, yet I had just begun to realize what this year had brought me. You know, the ups, the downs, success and a fair share of failure. The empty white walls that kept me trapped in between it's structure suddenly began to show images of colour. Pictures, appearing on the wall—holding a story, in between it's thin frame. Yet, I knew it was all just an illusion, my mind running free, playing it's old dirty tricks on me. These memories could never be forgotten; no matter how hard I tried.
A year ago, I walked down these same halls and these pictures didn't exist. I was free, I was able to walk away from everything, and live a normal life. Now, a year later? These stories have been left untold. These memories simply cannot be forgotten; and these pictures have been seen by all. Logical, I had two choices, one of them, was to run from it. Run as fast as I could, run into a corner, and hide like a coward....
The other was to cherish it for all it was worth.
And as I reached the end of the long stretch of hall way, two big black doors stood in front of me, with a world outside it, not too far behind it. I pushed those doors, so hard and so fast, I swear the janitor mumbled something about broken hinges. I couldn't help but to turn back and catch one last glimpse of the arena and I watched as the lights had been turned out. The night was over; or so I thought.
A pair of racing foot steps, peddled against my ear drums, as a kid, no older then twelve came racing in my direction. It was then, where I could hear, a sharp police siren crying out in panic in the distance. The kid stared up at me, his left cheek painted with a streak of dirt, he smelt like the very same brush he had likely been hiding in.
''What took you so long?'' The young kid whined as he picked a piece of tree branch out of his black hair. ''I've been waiting to talk to you all night; mother is going to freak!'' The kid expressed as he bit his lip, and looked behind him feverishly.
''So, you came all the way here by yourself?'' I said, rubbing my forehead—before coming to the conclusion that this entire encounter had been a real one.
''I don't live too far away from here'' The kid replies, pointing far beyond the parking lot, and in the direction of the police sirens. ''Anyways, look. I really want to be a wrestler when I grow up, just like you—and I wanted to know, exactly what that title means to you?'' The kid asked me.
I thought about it; I thought about it until my head hurt. Yet, I couldn't explain it—I couldn't fully comprehend it's meaning. This perhaps, because I really didn't understand it. The title, was rewarded to the most fittest fighter; the strongest, the very best—that part, I understood. However, where the title came from, what hands it had passed through, and what made the material worth a damn thing, I simply didn't know.
''I guess it doesn't really mean much, Kid'' I said, tapping him on the side of the shoulder, as the sound of mechanical wings began to cut sound through the skies. I crouched two a single knee and drew a deep breath. ''I think it's about time I dug deep, and found out, huh?'' I asked the kid, whom nodded his head. I rose to my feet and set off in the distance, leaving the young boy, to stand in the spotlight of...
A search helicopter.
In a weird way, I guess we are all looking for something.
The Notice
Date: December, 26th , 09
Place: Atlanta, Georgia
My search for origin of the APW world championship, began in Atlanta, Georgia home of none other then the first APW world heavyweight champion himself, John Green. If there was anyone who knew what it felt like to carry a brand new belt, with a flesh slate, it was him. Surely, he'd have some insight on where the title had originated from, as well.
Stationed in a coffee shop, it had been the first time ever; I had actually anticipated the arrival of John Green, anywhere. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a small video tape recorder, to document my trip out of town and provide evidence of my findings.
~Begin transmission~
''Hello, folks. Here I am in Atlanta, Georgia in a well known coffee shop awaiting the arrival of the former APW world champion, John Green. Being, the first APW world champion ever, surely he has some stories to share with me and has some in sight on where exactly this title had originated from''
I looked down at my watch; John Green was scheduled to make his arrival any minute now, as I feverishly glanced out the window, but with no luck.
''While John Green's world title rein was something the world barely remembers, as it lasted about five minutes in the minds of many—no doubt, John Green had made history by becoming the first APW world champion. And as a competitor in this sport, an event so significant, you'd think he'd do a bit of research to as what this title really means, and do some back checking on what it's really worth, so men like me, wouldn't have too. But I guess, this is all part of the game that is investigative journalism, huh?'' I smiled.
The door opened as a thin faced man, in a black suite made his way into the coffee shop. I could tell he was looking for someone by the way he scanned the patrons, eventually setting his eyes upon me. The man merely smirked and began to stride towards my table.
''This isn't John Green...'' I whisper into the video camera, strategically placing it to the left of me. The man stopped on the other end of the table and extended his hand graciously.
''You're right about that'' The thin faced man, confirmed. I stared at his hand and then looked away, surely a sign the man picked up on as he invited himself to a seat at my table. ''My name is Jason Blackburn and I work with APW offices'' he introduces himself.
I tilted my head in his direction, uncertain of his presence. ''So, the APW has decided to stalk me state-to-state now, the second I choose not to bring a camera crew along?'' I ask, straightening my face, staring a whole through Mr. Blackburn.
''Do not get me wrong, Mr. Only. I assure you, with the disappearance of President Jeff, you aren't the only superstar whom is being watched a bit more carefully around here'' Mr. Blackburn states calmly, before raising his finger in the air, wagging it back and forth. ''That however, is not why I am here. I am here to tell you, John Green isn't showing up to this little meeting of yours''
I bit my tongue, relaxed back in my chair, and drew a deep breath before throwing my hands on the table in-front of me. ''Why not? Please, enlighten me as to why John Green won't be here, today?'' I ask, as Mr. Blackburn smiles.
''I'm afraid John Green is a no show, due to an unfortunate incident at his home''
''Please elaborate'' I encourage Mr. Blackburn, whom tilts his head to the side. As a waitress places a cup of coffee in-front of me, to which I lift to my lips, and draw a long sip.
''He got his leg stuck in a chair again''
Mr. Blackburn announces to me, resulting in me spitting out my coffee all over the suite and face of Mr. Blackburn. Like a child, my eyes slowly peer up to the mans face, as I hand him an napkin.
''Sorry about that...'' I smirk. Mr. Blackburn clenched his teeth as he began to dab his face with elegance, before moving down to his expensive tailored suite. ''Now, Jason...'' I said, drawing the man's attention. ''I don't know what your purpose with me is, but I highly advise you end it right here right now, do you understand me?''
Mr. Blackburn, merely crumpled the pace of napkin tossing it to the floor.
''I can help you find what you're looking for''
~End transmission~
Show Case
Date: December, 27th, 09
Place: Somewhere in Canada
Location: Action Packed Wrestling HQ
The journey took another turn; and I found myself in APW's very own backyard searching desperately for some answers. Armed with a new accomplice, whom guaranteed that I'd find the answers I had been looking for, we had set our eyes on the APW headquarters. Mr. Blackburn held the key to the building, and with a simple nod of the head, he could virtually get me into any office I wanted to rome through.
''No, now that's off limits'' he said, as I scowled at the ''President Jeff'' name tag on the door. Mr. Blackburn led me through a series of hall ways and eventually to a back room. Juggling with the keys, he unlocked the door, pushing it slightly ajar, he turned his head over his shoulder. ''You aren't going to believe what's in here'' he whispered, before pushing the door all away open. Much like a kid in a candy store, I immediately rushed my way in, observing the room around me.
Trophies, awards, and a title case, with all three championships. The APW Xtreme title, the APW Overdrive championship, and of course, the APW world championship—all placed in a glass case, for show. It looked strikingly similar to the world title I had; and made me question...do I even hold an authentic title?
''In-case your wondering, the title you have, isn't the original'' Mr. Blackburn answers my thoughts, to my very own surprise. This admission was news breaking, shocking, surely it would send half of the APW wrestlers up in a rage, so quickly, I shuffled through my jacket, pulling out my camcorder, once again documenting the situation at hand.
~Begin Transmission~
''Would you like to state that again, Jason'' I asked the man, whom turned to me and smiled.
''No'' he smirked, nodding his head back and forth. It was clear he had been in the business for a long time, and knew how to cover his tracks and distort the truth. He wouldn't bite. ''Do you fancy turning off that camera?'' Mr. Blackburn asks, raising an eyebrow.
''No''I smirked trying to push Mr. Blackburn's buttons by repaying him a dosage of his own confidence. ''So, let's say, I wasn't carrying the original title—what would be the reason for it?'' I fish, hoping that he'd take the bait.
''Well, figuratively speaking, it would be because a said promoter doesn't believe the talent that holds it. For example; said champion is a former employee of a rival promotion?'' Mr. Blackburn teases with a smile, clearly tugging on the bait I had thrown to him.
''So, let's say, I am holding a replica title, right here right now. What makes it different from a title, that would be real... like a title in that case?'' I said, pointing to the three titles inside the glass case, hanging on the wall. Mr. Blackburn smiled, clearly impressed with himself, as he too scans the case.
''Well, given that specific scenario... your replica title would be treated with fake furnish. I'd be surprised if you could get 200$ for a title, men like you would be foolishly willing to give your life up for...'' Mr. Blackburn expresses with sorrow in his voice.
The title the case stared back at me; taunting me with it's gold plate. I clenched my fist and smiled at the thought of a new idea. Mr. Blackburn's cocky grin quickly faded to shades of worry, as I marched towards his direction.
''What are you doing?'' Mr. Blackburn asked putting his hands up in the air. ''I said what the hell are you doing!'' He shouted in panic, as I merely smirked and shoved him to the side. ''Don't you dare do it, you are breaking the law here!''
SMASH
The glass from the case fell to the floor in a million of pieces; I barely notice the gash across my fist. Squinting my eyes I grabbed the title from it's case observing the championship, while Mr. Blackburn through his hands up in the air.
''I can't believe you just did that! Give that title to me now!'' The man demands charging towards me; to which I extend my hand, securing him with a closed handed choke.
''This championship says made in china on the back...'' I said, as Jason Blackburn relinquished a sly smile.
''I guess you caught me in a...'' I cut off Mr. Blackburn with a sharp demand.
''We're going to china'' I said throwing Mr. Blackburn into a desk which sat behind him. Mr. Blackburn looked like he had just got a load off his chest as he fixed his suite and cracked his neck, in a show of authority.
'''China it is my friend''
Everybody has it made in China...
December, 29th, 09
Place: The big red one, China
My lungs desperately sucked up the polluted industrialized air, as we hid behind a garbage can in a Chinese back alleyway. Mr. Blackburn picks at his torn and tattered suit before banging his head against the trash bin. The Chinese officials chased us for what could only be described as for miles; as we made our getaway from a local sweatshop. Apparently, the usage of cameras are bared around these parts—obviously, my research of this place simply didn't occur.
~Begin Transmission~
''Level-One here in buttfuck China. My journey for the origin of the world title has led me here, to communist China. Specifically, we found ourselves peering through a glass pane to a sweat shop. Can you believe those kids get paid in pennies a day?''
I said turning to Mr. Blackburn, whom simply stands up to his feet and grumbles. ''I'm going to make a phone call'' he says, stumbling away, clearly a victim to his new environment.
''Nonetheless; while we didn't come away with the smoking gun we were looking for; we did manage to free some young kids. Apparently, titles are made everyday here in China. The promotions that buy them, usually don't last much longer then it's seven day shipping date—isn't that right, Micheal Lively and his IWC alumni?''
I winked to the camera
''In the end it looks like this investigation is finished ten fold. I don't know where the APW championship comes from, but perhaps, that really doesn't matter. All that matters is that from this day forward I am focused, I am determined, and I take my title rein as serious as ever...''
''An hour until new years in China, Lester!'' Mr. Blackburn shouts out loud; to which I shrugged my shoulders too.
''...all this in the NEW year of course''
~End transmission~
EXTRA FOOTAGE
''Happy new year'' The china natives shouted out in celebration in their native tongue; which could be heard over the techno music that blasted the stereo system. I sat at the bar; shouting a barrage of insults at the tender, who couldn't understand a single word.
''I can't believe you serve this shit. Do you see what you've done to these people? Fucking pathetic...'' I say, observing the party in front of me. I hated parties. And if it wasn't part of the deal with such a shady figure like Mr. Blackburn, I wouldn't be here. Blackburn stumbled back in my direction, laughing and partying it up, with a beer in his hand, he pointed in their direction.
''Do you see those girls?'' He said, smiling at them, as three of them all wave back at him. ''They love us Americans...''
''I'm Canadian'' I dully point out; Mr. Blackburn didn't observe any of it. ''Now let's get the hell out of here; I need to get back home''
''Leave?'' Mr. Blackburn enquires. ''I'm afraid not. Those girls showed me their tits and you wouldn't believe what I saw on them...''
''Made in China?'' I ask to which Blackburn looked at me cautiously.
''How do you know that?'' Blackburn asked of me to which I simply laughed off and reached into my pants pocket slipping out the small cam coder I snuck into the party. Turning it on, I looked into the camera and said...
''Everything is made in China''
~End transmission~
Trash is treasure
Date: January, 3rd, 2010
Place: Detroit, Michigan
Location: Scrap Yard
~Begin transmission~
''This is where our journey ends...''
I look out into the small scrap yard with various pieces of car parts sorted through out the lot. It was a place where unwanted and discarded vehicles came to be demolished and re used for other projects. A significant landmark, I figured would be the perfect setting to wrap this investigation up. Here I had been, travelling half away across the world, when the reality hadn't been too hard to see.
''Detroit Michigan; the motor city of the world. There isn't a damn thing special about this scrap yard, in fact, it's worth just nothing at all. That to me, is exactly what these championships are worth. My world title, Pence's overdrive title, and Micheal Lively's tin can. The title itself, is worth very little. It's about the champion. It's about the person who stands behind the piece of gold that makes it worth a damn thing''
I lowered the camcorder, allowing it to catch a glimpse of the large scrapyard.
''I'm the reason my world title is worth anything. The piece of scrap yard silver Pence wears on his shoulder and the piece of tin can Micheal Lively parades around with—are bigger than them. For they simply are title holders, but not champions. They don't know what they stand for; they don't know that in each title—a world championship does really exist''
I moved further into the scrap yard, now sorting my way through the parts. Car tires, smashed car doors, and twisted pieces of metal are all objects that pile up, in my way.
''So while these two champions attempt to verbally hold their title reins on par to my own? I'll continue to sort through these scraps of metal and build my legacy as world champion up from scratch, so high, that no man can ever dream to reach. I will build it so high, that the definition of a champion coincides with my title rein. Lastly, I'll build it so high—that there is no dispute, no need for a discussion in regards to who really is...
The champion of champions''
~End transmission~
It's a New Year; but it's the same old shit.
It doesn't matter how much the landscape of the APW changes, good or bad. It could come in the form of two new champions or two missing authoritative figures that run this joint. It could even come in the form of new superstars or men and women whom insist on swimming in uncharted waters; but one thing will remain, has remained, and will continue to remain true; Level-One. The best in the business the man YOU call YOUR World Heavyweight Champion!
So here we find ourselves, in a new calender year. Empty, waiting for me to take the days ahead as my own. There isn't a single motherfucker on this roster who doesn't want this year for their taking, well besides Slade Craven, whom you'd swear is still stuck in 1999 by one painful glance at one of his promos. Tip; it's an interview of some sort. Nonetheless, it's a New Year and everyone is looking to make name for themselves and thus it's up to me to stay alert, stay vigilant, and remember my goals ahead.
They don't change with a New Year. They have always been the same. I don't lower my expectations, I don't take whatever I can get and I'm not content with nothing less then being above the very same standards I have set. You know these standards very well, especially looking up at them from your position down below me. Isn't that right, Mr. Pence Weatherlight?
It's a New Year and my name is already laced with shit; much like anything that comes out of Pence Weatherlights mouth. Rumour has it; that your looking to issue a challenge to me of some sort. Scary. If it's anything like a world championship title shot, I'll merely laugh in your face. We have been there before, Pence. You aren't worth the material of scrap metal you carry on your own shoulder in a show of disgrace; never-mind actually challenging for a piece of gold that matters. Shit, Pence... think about it. With no Authoritative figure to bribe with blow jobs; I think your round of hand outs are put on hold for now.
Here I was thinking, it's a new year! Maybe...just maybe, Pence would grow the fuck up, and stop watching my every move like my number one fan. I'm not the most liked guy on this roster, fuck, the fans hate me—but it's always good knowing that I can glance into the crowd and see you wrestling a bunch of fat chicks over a t-shirt I have thrown into the crowd. What is it you want with me? My signature? I'll arrange it for you. Under the condition you shut your fucking mouth and stop running track around the male showers. Fruity too-shoes.
I mean seriously, I understand I am the measuring bar you simply can't stretch your imagination to touch—but do you have to mention my name every step of the way? Shit. The second you won that overdrive title, you issued a acceptance speech—it went something along the lines of... ''I'm a champion too Level-One!'' I wouldn't be surprised if you had your girlfriend scream my name while your hitting the cooch and Micheal Lively is watching through your bedroom with his pants down in the bushes. The fact that you think your mid card trinket is equivalent to my world title; is like saying, a women is physically superior to a male; something you find from those three hundred pound feminists who own ten cats.
The truth is, you didn't even know we HAD an overdrive title until President Jeff sat your pale ass down in a chair and told you the World title route isn't going to work out for you. So, he handed you a box of tissues and urged you to do something else, anything. It was either the overdrive title or the X-treme title, but I guess a tin can would reflect a little too brightly on your garbage wrestling manoeuvres. Good choice.
Pence; the more I talk about you the more I begin to feel sorry for you; and I don't say that often. I mean, I have beaten people to a bloody pulp, took their future, and wiped their faces off with it just to rub it in. Guess what? I felt nothing. You though? You are delusional. You truly believe you have what it takes to beat me. Through your rantings and ramblings, you've managed to repeat the same shit long enough not to only remember it time and time again, but to believe it. You've stared at your reflection for too long, and are now deeply in love with yourself. Love is blind and you can't see a damn thing in-front of you. You can't see that the reflection is cracked, broken, and ready to be discarded—because you've closed your eyes and the image you once had is burnt into the back of your mind.
You were the world champion, Pence; but that only because I allowed you to. And quite possibly, it was the worst mistake I could have made. It hasn't done a damn thing to help you. Now, your stuck in a place where you feel you NEED to beat me and I am stuck in the mind frame that will not allow this to happen. Thus, simply put... it wont. So, I guess the only thing you can do now is take your little achievements of basic success and blow it out of proportion, hype it with your never ending barrage of words, and mix it in with countless lies—hopefully, for your sake, you manage to fool the masses of sheeple you cater too, and you can hold onto an illusion of credibility you so desperately crave.
I mean, that's what you're looking for, isn't it? When President Mac decided to wake up one morning to wax his bald head—he finally remembered he had a wrestling promotion too tend to and saved it just before it hit rock bottom. Realizing everyone who was worth a shit decided they weren't going to wait around for him, he decided to run the old mill on contract negotiations—and that old man has you by the balls now, Pence. In a time where EWC is launching pot shots at us, it's clear to me where your loyalties lie.
See, all Mac needs to do is pet you and repeat sweet nothings in your ear that makes you feel all warm and cosy inside; and your sold on the idea. Your sold on the idea of running back to a promotion that not only screwed me over, but YOU over too. Given the circumstances of the last few weeks, you can't help but tease your dilemma. The power struggle between the APW and EWC is in full swing, and you can't help but throw yourself between it. I don't want to spoil your cry for attention, Pence—but I for one, can't be fucking bothered about it. I for one, hope you stay in the EWC and severe your ties with the APW. Unless, your ego wants to live with the fact you aren't the best this company has to offer...
It's something you and the rest of this roster needs to come to terms with. As long as you and everyone else sets out to outshine me, you are guaranteeing yourself failure. I could respect you Pence, if you took that mid card title, held it, shut your mouth, and fell back in your own little world where I don't exist; but you aren't smart enough to do this much.
A fool never learns from his mistakes; a fool is exactly what you are. So, how are you going to bring victory to your side this time, Pence? Empty threats? Broken promises? Or how about a bunch of homosexual epithets, bad language, and overall anti-establishment philosophies? I admit, the last three I just listed sounds a lot like me. You really don't think your going to defeat me by sounding like me, do you? At the end of the day, you'll need to lace up the boots and get the job done, and if you plan on mimicking my in-ring ability, you'd end up breaking a fucking nail.
Pence Weatherlight? Eh, to the wood chipper this one goes...
Now, addressing a second hack of interest; Micheal Lively. Whom proudly wears a trash can around his shoulder; which is only fitting, considering this guy carries the aroma of a homeless, shit eating, bum. A bum who actually doesn't belong in MY ring. Apparently, this bum can do aerobics and move around the ring like an agile monkey, but on the streets he'd call that work, nothing special of note. Why, Micheal Lively is still employed with the APW is mind boggling—but I guess President Jeff has a thing for circus monkey's and a cheap comedy schtick.
It was fun watching APW television, Monday Nights, while Micheal Lively was parading around the APW under the title of King Shit because he was handed a free title rein while putting in little to no effort. It was fun, hearing you run your mouth, as if you were truly the best in this business. The minute I decided I was going to stop watching the APW; and actually become apart of the APW, is about the same time, your title was coming to a screeching halt.
Micheal; deep down you know I am the better man. Deep down, you know there isn't a damn thing in your arsenal that could put me down back first against the mat, any longer then two seconds. This eats away at you, bite by bite, a piece of you goes with it—and the more desperate you become. The more controversial and over the top, you sell yourself. This is because much like Pence Weatherlight, you're an attention whore.
You though? You actually have an excuse. You exploited your mother. You abused her, you beat her, and you pushed that women around. Not because you hate her; but probably because she treated you the same exact way, when you were younger. You, a snot nosed punk, rolled around in your own shit, spoke out of turn, and annoyed the fuck out of anyone in a 10 mile radius—if I was your mother? I'd beat your ass too. All I see is a young man, who really wants attention from his mother—be it negative and you want the entire world to know it too.
And your father? He probably gave you no attention too. Too busy getting drunk and his dick sucked by sluts—basically, anything you'd do as the man you THINK you are. Yet, in a way...you're sorta like me. I have that rage, that anger and that hate for the same people who brought me into this world. A world filled with hate, death, and fire—a world I simply cannot co-exist with. However, what makes us different is how we exercise our short comings. It's how we interpret the bad, the evil, the wrongs and channel it into power, strength, and everything else that you know is wrong but feels so right. My ability to take this world for the abysmal black whole it is; is exactly why I stand ABOVE you in bright white lights.
See, Lively—you can throw anything you got at me. You can put your life on line and raise the stakes; I'll kill you going all in. Do not bet against me. Those who haven't realized that I'll do ANYTHING for victory, obviously don't know the sight of a true winner. No, too busy observing the tactics of men like you and Pence Weatherlight. They are too busy buying into the cheap entertainment, and neglecting skill in the light of their own ignorance. Lively, I beg of you; when you find your balls and decide your ready to man up to me? I urge you to bring your absolute best; and I'll simply bring better.
I may be just a man; in theory I'm weak—much like you are. You cut me? I bleed. You hit me? You knock me down. You kick me? I feel it. What makes me different from you Micheal Lively, is that I love blood. I love being knocked down. I love being kicked while my attack believes I'm rendered useless; because THAT is exactly what fuels me to get back up again. That is what fuels me to rise to my feet; look my rival in the eye and remind them that they don't got a fucking thing on me!
You should see what happens when it is me who is wielding the blade. I love hearing the sound of their cowardice cries when they witness the sight of their own blood. I love watching them cower when they find themselves knocked down and in vulnerable position. I love kicking them when their down; as they fall short of a death blow. This is just one of the many things that fuels me as a man, warrior, and champion.
I do not expect someone like you to understand.
I, unlike you Micheal Lively, have a long future in this business. I'm young, I'm experienced and I'm just starting to step out into my prime. You on the other hand? You'll be rolling on the mat, trying to prove your better by some wash up, whom took a year leave from wrestling because he got a ''boo boo'' jab into his fucking knee. Are you kidding me?
The sooner you and Pence Weatherlight stop beating around the bush and acknowledge you BOTH have not a damn single thing on me when push comes to shove the quicker we can find a contender that will actually give me a decent challenge. A contender, where I don't have feel obligated to giving it 50% to tease the fact that one of you pathetic bottom feeders could possibly beat someone as talented and well rounded as I am.
The point is; I proved without a shadow of a doubt that I am the greatest APW world champion in it's short two year history. I showed that I am a main-stay in the APW world heavyweight division, while the former champions seemingly are champions no longer. This is the same position you two men are in, right now. The only difference is, unlike Biggs and Chris Cyrus; they actually cared about their titles. They didn't get a hand out because they weren't good enough to win the world title, like you two are.
So you have two choices. You can keep running your mouth from the pile of shit you stand on and call an ivory tower; OR you can drop your titles on the same grounds you picked them up from, grab your balls, man the fuck up—and make YOURSELVES known as WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP contenders. Shit. Who the fuck am I kidding?
So here; from me to you—a toast for mediocrity!
Cheers!
[/color][/center]The lookout
It's amazing how quick time flies by. Here I was, walking down a empty arena hallway, with a janitor trailing behind me, impatiently wiping my foot steps away with his old dusty mop. This, a sharp contrast the jam-packed arena that filled the building to it's capacity. All was silent, except the janitors soft humming, which was so harmonic it could put just about anyone to sleep where they stood.
''Aye, you mind gettin' to walkin?'' The janitor said sharply, as I shook my head free, and picked up my pace as I raced down the hall.
Still, my eyes captured the scene in front of me as if everything was going in slow motion. A new year loomed over my head, yet I had just begun to realize what this year had brought me. You know, the ups, the downs, success and a fair share of failure. The empty white walls that kept me trapped in between it's structure suddenly began to show images of colour. Pictures, appearing on the wall—holding a story, in between it's thin frame. Yet, I knew it was all just an illusion, my mind running free, playing it's old dirty tricks on me. These memories could never be forgotten; no matter how hard I tried.
A year ago, I walked down these same halls and these pictures didn't exist. I was free, I was able to walk away from everything, and live a normal life. Now, a year later? These stories have been left untold. These memories simply cannot be forgotten; and these pictures have been seen by all. Logical, I had two choices, one of them, was to run from it. Run as fast as I could, run into a corner, and hide like a coward....
The other was to cherish it for all it was worth.
And as I reached the end of the long stretch of hall way, two big black doors stood in front of me, with a world outside it, not too far behind it. I pushed those doors, so hard and so fast, I swear the janitor mumbled something about broken hinges. I couldn't help but to turn back and catch one last glimpse of the arena and I watched as the lights had been turned out. The night was over; or so I thought.
A pair of racing foot steps, peddled against my ear drums, as a kid, no older then twelve came racing in my direction. It was then, where I could hear, a sharp police siren crying out in panic in the distance. The kid stared up at me, his left cheek painted with a streak of dirt, he smelt like the very same brush he had likely been hiding in.
''What took you so long?'' The young kid whined as he picked a piece of tree branch out of his black hair. ''I've been waiting to talk to you all night; mother is going to freak!'' The kid expressed as he bit his lip, and looked behind him feverishly.
''So, you came all the way here by yourself?'' I said, rubbing my forehead—before coming to the conclusion that this entire encounter had been a real one.
''I don't live too far away from here'' The kid replies, pointing far beyond the parking lot, and in the direction of the police sirens. ''Anyways, look. I really want to be a wrestler when I grow up, just like you—and I wanted to know, exactly what that title means to you?'' The kid asked me.
I thought about it; I thought about it until my head hurt. Yet, I couldn't explain it—I couldn't fully comprehend it's meaning. This perhaps, because I really didn't understand it. The title, was rewarded to the most fittest fighter; the strongest, the very best—that part, I understood. However, where the title came from, what hands it had passed through, and what made the material worth a damn thing, I simply didn't know.
''I guess it doesn't really mean much, Kid'' I said, tapping him on the side of the shoulder, as the sound of mechanical wings began to cut sound through the skies. I crouched two a single knee and drew a deep breath. ''I think it's about time I dug deep, and found out, huh?'' I asked the kid, whom nodded his head. I rose to my feet and set off in the distance, leaving the young boy, to stand in the spotlight of...
A search helicopter.
In a weird way, I guess we are all looking for something.
The Notice
Date: December, 26th , 09
Place: Atlanta, Georgia
My search for origin of the APW world championship, began in Atlanta, Georgia home of none other then the first APW world heavyweight champion himself, John Green. If there was anyone who knew what it felt like to carry a brand new belt, with a flesh slate, it was him. Surely, he'd have some insight on where the title had originated from, as well.
Stationed in a coffee shop, it had been the first time ever; I had actually anticipated the arrival of John Green, anywhere. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a small video tape recorder, to document my trip out of town and provide evidence of my findings.
~Begin transmission~
''Hello, folks. Here I am in Atlanta, Georgia in a well known coffee shop awaiting the arrival of the former APW world champion, John Green. Being, the first APW world champion ever, surely he has some stories to share with me and has some in sight on where exactly this title had originated from''
I looked down at my watch; John Green was scheduled to make his arrival any minute now, as I feverishly glanced out the window, but with no luck.
''While John Green's world title rein was something the world barely remembers, as it lasted about five minutes in the minds of many—no doubt, John Green had made history by becoming the first APW world champion. And as a competitor in this sport, an event so significant, you'd think he'd do a bit of research to as what this title really means, and do some back checking on what it's really worth, so men like me, wouldn't have too. But I guess, this is all part of the game that is investigative journalism, huh?'' I smiled.
The door opened as a thin faced man, in a black suite made his way into the coffee shop. I could tell he was looking for someone by the way he scanned the patrons, eventually setting his eyes upon me. The man merely smirked and began to stride towards my table.
''This isn't John Green...'' I whisper into the video camera, strategically placing it to the left of me. The man stopped on the other end of the table and extended his hand graciously.
''You're right about that'' The thin faced man, confirmed. I stared at his hand and then looked away, surely a sign the man picked up on as he invited himself to a seat at my table. ''My name is Jason Blackburn and I work with APW offices'' he introduces himself.
I tilted my head in his direction, uncertain of his presence. ''So, the APW has decided to stalk me state-to-state now, the second I choose not to bring a camera crew along?'' I ask, straightening my face, staring a whole through Mr. Blackburn.
''Do not get me wrong, Mr. Only. I assure you, with the disappearance of President Jeff, you aren't the only superstar whom is being watched a bit more carefully around here'' Mr. Blackburn states calmly, before raising his finger in the air, wagging it back and forth. ''That however, is not why I am here. I am here to tell you, John Green isn't showing up to this little meeting of yours''
I bit my tongue, relaxed back in my chair, and drew a deep breath before throwing my hands on the table in-front of me. ''Why not? Please, enlighten me as to why John Green won't be here, today?'' I ask, as Mr. Blackburn smiles.
''I'm afraid John Green is a no show, due to an unfortunate incident at his home''
''Please elaborate'' I encourage Mr. Blackburn, whom tilts his head to the side. As a waitress places a cup of coffee in-front of me, to which I lift to my lips, and draw a long sip.
''He got his leg stuck in a chair again''
Mr. Blackburn announces to me, resulting in me spitting out my coffee all over the suite and face of Mr. Blackburn. Like a child, my eyes slowly peer up to the mans face, as I hand him an napkin.
''Sorry about that...'' I smirk. Mr. Blackburn clenched his teeth as he began to dab his face with elegance, before moving down to his expensive tailored suite. ''Now, Jason...'' I said, drawing the man's attention. ''I don't know what your purpose with me is, but I highly advise you end it right here right now, do you understand me?''
Mr. Blackburn, merely crumpled the pace of napkin tossing it to the floor.
''I can help you find what you're looking for''
~End transmission~
Show Case
Date: December, 27th, 09
Place: Somewhere in Canada
Location: Action Packed Wrestling HQ
The journey took another turn; and I found myself in APW's very own backyard searching desperately for some answers. Armed with a new accomplice, whom guaranteed that I'd find the answers I had been looking for, we had set our eyes on the APW headquarters. Mr. Blackburn held the key to the building, and with a simple nod of the head, he could virtually get me into any office I wanted to rome through.
''No, now that's off limits'' he said, as I scowled at the ''President Jeff'' name tag on the door. Mr. Blackburn led me through a series of hall ways and eventually to a back room. Juggling with the keys, he unlocked the door, pushing it slightly ajar, he turned his head over his shoulder. ''You aren't going to believe what's in here'' he whispered, before pushing the door all away open. Much like a kid in a candy store, I immediately rushed my way in, observing the room around me.
Trophies, awards, and a title case, with all three championships. The APW Xtreme title, the APW Overdrive championship, and of course, the APW world championship—all placed in a glass case, for show. It looked strikingly similar to the world title I had; and made me question...do I even hold an authentic title?
''In-case your wondering, the title you have, isn't the original'' Mr. Blackburn answers my thoughts, to my very own surprise. This admission was news breaking, shocking, surely it would send half of the APW wrestlers up in a rage, so quickly, I shuffled through my jacket, pulling out my camcorder, once again documenting the situation at hand.
~Begin Transmission~
''Would you like to state that again, Jason'' I asked the man, whom turned to me and smiled.
''No'' he smirked, nodding his head back and forth. It was clear he had been in the business for a long time, and knew how to cover his tracks and distort the truth. He wouldn't bite. ''Do you fancy turning off that camera?'' Mr. Blackburn asks, raising an eyebrow.
''No''I smirked trying to push Mr. Blackburn's buttons by repaying him a dosage of his own confidence. ''So, let's say, I wasn't carrying the original title—what would be the reason for it?'' I fish, hoping that he'd take the bait.
''Well, figuratively speaking, it would be because a said promoter doesn't believe the talent that holds it. For example; said champion is a former employee of a rival promotion?'' Mr. Blackburn teases with a smile, clearly tugging on the bait I had thrown to him.
''So, let's say, I am holding a replica title, right here right now. What makes it different from a title, that would be real... like a title in that case?'' I said, pointing to the three titles inside the glass case, hanging on the wall. Mr. Blackburn smiled, clearly impressed with himself, as he too scans the case.
''Well, given that specific scenario... your replica title would be treated with fake furnish. I'd be surprised if you could get 200$ for a title, men like you would be foolishly willing to give your life up for...'' Mr. Blackburn expresses with sorrow in his voice.
The title the case stared back at me; taunting me with it's gold plate. I clenched my fist and smiled at the thought of a new idea. Mr. Blackburn's cocky grin quickly faded to shades of worry, as I marched towards his direction.
''What are you doing?'' Mr. Blackburn asked putting his hands up in the air. ''I said what the hell are you doing!'' He shouted in panic, as I merely smirked and shoved him to the side. ''Don't you dare do it, you are breaking the law here!''
SMASH
The glass from the case fell to the floor in a million of pieces; I barely notice the gash across my fist. Squinting my eyes I grabbed the title from it's case observing the championship, while Mr. Blackburn through his hands up in the air.
''I can't believe you just did that! Give that title to me now!'' The man demands charging towards me; to which I extend my hand, securing him with a closed handed choke.
''This championship says made in china on the back...'' I said, as Jason Blackburn relinquished a sly smile.
''I guess you caught me in a...'' I cut off Mr. Blackburn with a sharp demand.
''We're going to china'' I said throwing Mr. Blackburn into a desk which sat behind him. Mr. Blackburn looked like he had just got a load off his chest as he fixed his suite and cracked his neck, in a show of authority.
'''China it is my friend''
Everybody has it made in China...
December, 29th, 09
Place: The big red one, China
My lungs desperately sucked up the polluted industrialized air, as we hid behind a garbage can in a Chinese back alleyway. Mr. Blackburn picks at his torn and tattered suit before banging his head against the trash bin. The Chinese officials chased us for what could only be described as for miles; as we made our getaway from a local sweatshop. Apparently, the usage of cameras are bared around these parts—obviously, my research of this place simply didn't occur.
~Begin Transmission~
''Level-One here in buttfuck China. My journey for the origin of the world title has led me here, to communist China. Specifically, we found ourselves peering through a glass pane to a sweat shop. Can you believe those kids get paid in pennies a day?''
I said turning to Mr. Blackburn, whom simply stands up to his feet and grumbles. ''I'm going to make a phone call'' he says, stumbling away, clearly a victim to his new environment.
''Nonetheless; while we didn't come away with the smoking gun we were looking for; we did manage to free some young kids. Apparently, titles are made everyday here in China. The promotions that buy them, usually don't last much longer then it's seven day shipping date—isn't that right, Micheal Lively and his IWC alumni?''
I winked to the camera
''In the end it looks like this investigation is finished ten fold. I don't know where the APW championship comes from, but perhaps, that really doesn't matter. All that matters is that from this day forward I am focused, I am determined, and I take my title rein as serious as ever...''
''An hour until new years in China, Lester!'' Mr. Blackburn shouts out loud; to which I shrugged my shoulders too.
''...all this in the NEW year of course''
~End transmission~
EXTRA FOOTAGE
''Happy new year'' The china natives shouted out in celebration in their native tongue; which could be heard over the techno music that blasted the stereo system. I sat at the bar; shouting a barrage of insults at the tender, who couldn't understand a single word.
''I can't believe you serve this shit. Do you see what you've done to these people? Fucking pathetic...'' I say, observing the party in front of me. I hated parties. And if it wasn't part of the deal with such a shady figure like Mr. Blackburn, I wouldn't be here. Blackburn stumbled back in my direction, laughing and partying it up, with a beer in his hand, he pointed in their direction.
''Do you see those girls?'' He said, smiling at them, as three of them all wave back at him. ''They love us Americans...''
''I'm Canadian'' I dully point out; Mr. Blackburn didn't observe any of it. ''Now let's get the hell out of here; I need to get back home''
''Leave?'' Mr. Blackburn enquires. ''I'm afraid not. Those girls showed me their tits and you wouldn't believe what I saw on them...''
''Made in China?'' I ask to which Blackburn looked at me cautiously.
''How do you know that?'' Blackburn asked of me to which I simply laughed off and reached into my pants pocket slipping out the small cam coder I snuck into the party. Turning it on, I looked into the camera and said...
''Everything is made in China''
~End transmission~
Trash is treasure
Date: January, 3rd, 2010
Place: Detroit, Michigan
Location: Scrap Yard
~Begin transmission~
''This is where our journey ends...''
I look out into the small scrap yard with various pieces of car parts sorted through out the lot. It was a place where unwanted and discarded vehicles came to be demolished and re used for other projects. A significant landmark, I figured would be the perfect setting to wrap this investigation up. Here I had been, travelling half away across the world, when the reality hadn't been too hard to see.
''Detroit Michigan; the motor city of the world. There isn't a damn thing special about this scrap yard, in fact, it's worth just nothing at all. That to me, is exactly what these championships are worth. My world title, Pence's overdrive title, and Micheal Lively's tin can. The title itself, is worth very little. It's about the champion. It's about the person who stands behind the piece of gold that makes it worth a damn thing''
I lowered the camcorder, allowing it to catch a glimpse of the large scrapyard.
''I'm the reason my world title is worth anything. The piece of scrap yard silver Pence wears on his shoulder and the piece of tin can Micheal Lively parades around with—are bigger than them. For they simply are title holders, but not champions. They don't know what they stand for; they don't know that in each title—a world championship does really exist''
I moved further into the scrap yard, now sorting my way through the parts. Car tires, smashed car doors, and twisted pieces of metal are all objects that pile up, in my way.
''So while these two champions attempt to verbally hold their title reins on par to my own? I'll continue to sort through these scraps of metal and build my legacy as world champion up from scratch, so high, that no man can ever dream to reach. I will build it so high, that the definition of a champion coincides with my title rein. Lastly, I'll build it so high—that there is no dispute, no need for a discussion in regards to who really is...
The champion of champions''
~End transmission~
It's a New Year; but it's the same old shit.
It doesn't matter how much the landscape of the APW changes, good or bad. It could come in the form of two new champions or two missing authoritative figures that run this joint. It could even come in the form of new superstars or men and women whom insist on swimming in uncharted waters; but one thing will remain, has remained, and will continue to remain true; Level-One. The best in the business the man YOU call YOUR World Heavyweight Champion!
So here we find ourselves, in a new calender year. Empty, waiting for me to take the days ahead as my own. There isn't a single motherfucker on this roster who doesn't want this year for their taking, well besides Slade Craven, whom you'd swear is still stuck in 1999 by one painful glance at one of his promos. Tip; it's an interview of some sort. Nonetheless, it's a New Year and everyone is looking to make name for themselves and thus it's up to me to stay alert, stay vigilant, and remember my goals ahead.
They don't change with a New Year. They have always been the same. I don't lower my expectations, I don't take whatever I can get and I'm not content with nothing less then being above the very same standards I have set. You know these standards very well, especially looking up at them from your position down below me. Isn't that right, Mr. Pence Weatherlight?
It's a New Year and my name is already laced with shit; much like anything that comes out of Pence Weatherlights mouth. Rumour has it; that your looking to issue a challenge to me of some sort. Scary. If it's anything like a world championship title shot, I'll merely laugh in your face. We have been there before, Pence. You aren't worth the material of scrap metal you carry on your own shoulder in a show of disgrace; never-mind actually challenging for a piece of gold that matters. Shit, Pence... think about it. With no Authoritative figure to bribe with blow jobs; I think your round of hand outs are put on hold for now.
Here I was thinking, it's a new year! Maybe...just maybe, Pence would grow the fuck up, and stop watching my every move like my number one fan. I'm not the most liked guy on this roster, fuck, the fans hate me—but it's always good knowing that I can glance into the crowd and see you wrestling a bunch of fat chicks over a t-shirt I have thrown into the crowd. What is it you want with me? My signature? I'll arrange it for you. Under the condition you shut your fucking mouth and stop running track around the male showers. Fruity too-shoes.
I mean seriously, I understand I am the measuring bar you simply can't stretch your imagination to touch—but do you have to mention my name every step of the way? Shit. The second you won that overdrive title, you issued a acceptance speech—it went something along the lines of... ''I'm a champion too Level-One!'' I wouldn't be surprised if you had your girlfriend scream my name while your hitting the cooch and Micheal Lively is watching through your bedroom with his pants down in the bushes. The fact that you think your mid card trinket is equivalent to my world title; is like saying, a women is physically superior to a male; something you find from those three hundred pound feminists who own ten cats.
The truth is, you didn't even know we HAD an overdrive title until President Jeff sat your pale ass down in a chair and told you the World title route isn't going to work out for you. So, he handed you a box of tissues and urged you to do something else, anything. It was either the overdrive title or the X-treme title, but I guess a tin can would reflect a little too brightly on your garbage wrestling manoeuvres. Good choice.
Pence; the more I talk about you the more I begin to feel sorry for you; and I don't say that often. I mean, I have beaten people to a bloody pulp, took their future, and wiped their faces off with it just to rub it in. Guess what? I felt nothing. You though? You are delusional. You truly believe you have what it takes to beat me. Through your rantings and ramblings, you've managed to repeat the same shit long enough not to only remember it time and time again, but to believe it. You've stared at your reflection for too long, and are now deeply in love with yourself. Love is blind and you can't see a damn thing in-front of you. You can't see that the reflection is cracked, broken, and ready to be discarded—because you've closed your eyes and the image you once had is burnt into the back of your mind.
You were the world champion, Pence; but that only because I allowed you to. And quite possibly, it was the worst mistake I could have made. It hasn't done a damn thing to help you. Now, your stuck in a place where you feel you NEED to beat me and I am stuck in the mind frame that will not allow this to happen. Thus, simply put... it wont. So, I guess the only thing you can do now is take your little achievements of basic success and blow it out of proportion, hype it with your never ending barrage of words, and mix it in with countless lies—hopefully, for your sake, you manage to fool the masses of sheeple you cater too, and you can hold onto an illusion of credibility you so desperately crave.
I mean, that's what you're looking for, isn't it? When President Mac decided to wake up one morning to wax his bald head—he finally remembered he had a wrestling promotion too tend to and saved it just before it hit rock bottom. Realizing everyone who was worth a shit decided they weren't going to wait around for him, he decided to run the old mill on contract negotiations—and that old man has you by the balls now, Pence. In a time where EWC is launching pot shots at us, it's clear to me where your loyalties lie.
See, all Mac needs to do is pet you and repeat sweet nothings in your ear that makes you feel all warm and cosy inside; and your sold on the idea. Your sold on the idea of running back to a promotion that not only screwed me over, but YOU over too. Given the circumstances of the last few weeks, you can't help but tease your dilemma. The power struggle between the APW and EWC is in full swing, and you can't help but throw yourself between it. I don't want to spoil your cry for attention, Pence—but I for one, can't be fucking bothered about it. I for one, hope you stay in the EWC and severe your ties with the APW. Unless, your ego wants to live with the fact you aren't the best this company has to offer...
It's something you and the rest of this roster needs to come to terms with. As long as you and everyone else sets out to outshine me, you are guaranteeing yourself failure. I could respect you Pence, if you took that mid card title, held it, shut your mouth, and fell back in your own little world where I don't exist; but you aren't smart enough to do this much.
A fool never learns from his mistakes; a fool is exactly what you are. So, how are you going to bring victory to your side this time, Pence? Empty threats? Broken promises? Or how about a bunch of homosexual epithets, bad language, and overall anti-establishment philosophies? I admit, the last three I just listed sounds a lot like me. You really don't think your going to defeat me by sounding like me, do you? At the end of the day, you'll need to lace up the boots and get the job done, and if you plan on mimicking my in-ring ability, you'd end up breaking a fucking nail.
Pence Weatherlight? Eh, to the wood chipper this one goes...
Now, addressing a second hack of interest; Micheal Lively. Whom proudly wears a trash can around his shoulder; which is only fitting, considering this guy carries the aroma of a homeless, shit eating, bum. A bum who actually doesn't belong in MY ring. Apparently, this bum can do aerobics and move around the ring like an agile monkey, but on the streets he'd call that work, nothing special of note. Why, Micheal Lively is still employed with the APW is mind boggling—but I guess President Jeff has a thing for circus monkey's and a cheap comedy schtick.
It was fun watching APW television, Monday Nights, while Micheal Lively was parading around the APW under the title of King Shit because he was handed a free title rein while putting in little to no effort. It was fun, hearing you run your mouth, as if you were truly the best in this business. The minute I decided I was going to stop watching the APW; and actually become apart of the APW, is about the same time, your title was coming to a screeching halt.
Micheal; deep down you know I am the better man. Deep down, you know there isn't a damn thing in your arsenal that could put me down back first against the mat, any longer then two seconds. This eats away at you, bite by bite, a piece of you goes with it—and the more desperate you become. The more controversial and over the top, you sell yourself. This is because much like Pence Weatherlight, you're an attention whore.
You though? You actually have an excuse. You exploited your mother. You abused her, you beat her, and you pushed that women around. Not because you hate her; but probably because she treated you the same exact way, when you were younger. You, a snot nosed punk, rolled around in your own shit, spoke out of turn, and annoyed the fuck out of anyone in a 10 mile radius—if I was your mother? I'd beat your ass too. All I see is a young man, who really wants attention from his mother—be it negative and you want the entire world to know it too.
And your father? He probably gave you no attention too. Too busy getting drunk and his dick sucked by sluts—basically, anything you'd do as the man you THINK you are. Yet, in a way...you're sorta like me. I have that rage, that anger and that hate for the same people who brought me into this world. A world filled with hate, death, and fire—a world I simply cannot co-exist with. However, what makes us different is how we exercise our short comings. It's how we interpret the bad, the evil, the wrongs and channel it into power, strength, and everything else that you know is wrong but feels so right. My ability to take this world for the abysmal black whole it is; is exactly why I stand ABOVE you in bright white lights.
See, Lively—you can throw anything you got at me. You can put your life on line and raise the stakes; I'll kill you going all in. Do not bet against me. Those who haven't realized that I'll do ANYTHING for victory, obviously don't know the sight of a true winner. No, too busy observing the tactics of men like you and Pence Weatherlight. They are too busy buying into the cheap entertainment, and neglecting skill in the light of their own ignorance. Lively, I beg of you; when you find your balls and decide your ready to man up to me? I urge you to bring your absolute best; and I'll simply bring better.
I may be just a man; in theory I'm weak—much like you are. You cut me? I bleed. You hit me? You knock me down. You kick me? I feel it. What makes me different from you Micheal Lively, is that I love blood. I love being knocked down. I love being kicked while my attack believes I'm rendered useless; because THAT is exactly what fuels me to get back up again. That is what fuels me to rise to my feet; look my rival in the eye and remind them that they don't got a fucking thing on me!
You should see what happens when it is me who is wielding the blade. I love hearing the sound of their cowardice cries when they witness the sight of their own blood. I love watching them cower when they find themselves knocked down and in vulnerable position. I love kicking them when their down; as they fall short of a death blow. This is just one of the many things that fuels me as a man, warrior, and champion.
I do not expect someone like you to understand.
I, unlike you Micheal Lively, have a long future in this business. I'm young, I'm experienced and I'm just starting to step out into my prime. You on the other hand? You'll be rolling on the mat, trying to prove your better by some wash up, whom took a year leave from wrestling because he got a ''boo boo'' jab into his fucking knee. Are you kidding me?
The sooner you and Pence Weatherlight stop beating around the bush and acknowledge you BOTH have not a damn single thing on me when push comes to shove the quicker we can find a contender that will actually give me a decent challenge. A contender, where I don't have feel obligated to giving it 50% to tease the fact that one of you pathetic bottom feeders could possibly beat someone as talented and well rounded as I am.
The point is; I proved without a shadow of a doubt that I am the greatest APW world champion in it's short two year history. I showed that I am a main-stay in the APW world heavyweight division, while the former champions seemingly are champions no longer. This is the same position you two men are in, right now. The only difference is, unlike Biggs and Chris Cyrus; they actually cared about their titles. They didn't get a hand out because they weren't good enough to win the world title, like you two are.
So you have two choices. You can keep running your mouth from the pile of shit you stand on and call an ivory tower; OR you can drop your titles on the same grounds you picked them up from, grab your balls, man the fuck up—and make YOURSELVES known as WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP contenders. Shit. Who the fuck am I kidding?
So here; from me to you—a toast for mediocrity!
Cheers!
