Post by Jules on Feb 8, 2013 7:19:36 GMT -4
(OOC: For anyone unfamiliar with the start of this saga, it is advisable to read here.)
At the beginning of 2013, having fled London to escape the gangsters at his heels, Lenny officially jumped into bed with the shady lawyer Mr. Black, and the “Touchstone” organisation he represented. A new life beckoned in the land of opportunity for Lenny and his long-suffering fiancé Cheryl ‘Cher’ Underwood; it was tough to leave everything they ever knew behind, but Lenny felt the fruit was ripe for picking in the land where the dollar reigned supreme.
So with his ‘Touchstone’ contract signed, Lenny jetted off to Los Angeles – the world’s biggest whore to the $ - to plead his case for an Action Packed Wrestling contract. In his favour was the violence and brutality bred into him by the callous streets of London’s east end, an education from the most devious criminal minds, and a fairly respectable placing as a free agent in APW’s recent showcase event – Survive & Conquer. There was one man he had to convince – Meltdown General Manager Alexander Duvall – and a meeting with Duvall was the sole reason for Lenny being in L.A. on this day.
I remember that day clearly now, even to the very date. It was Monday 4th February 2013 when The Guv’nor turned up at L.A. Coliseum Sports Arena. Immediately he commandeered the services of backstage lackey, with instructions to be taken to Duvall. A short walk through the labyrinth of corridors brought Lenny to his quarry; Duvall was stood watching a monitor, very expressive in his agitation.
“For fuck’s sake!” Duvall shouted, tossing away a clipboard in his grasp. “Can you believe this guy?”
Lenny approached, slipping on his aviators to complete the look of his crisp off-white suit and crushed grapefruit coloured shirt. “Alexander Duvall?”
“What?” Duvall barked, barely warranting Lenny eye contact before drawing his attention back to the screen. “Where did we find this bum? More importantly, what asshole convinced me to give him a contract?”
“My name’s Lenny Lansbury, but people round here will know me as ‘The Guv’nor’.”
“Yeah, my office is down the corridor,” Duvall replied, barely acknowledging Lenny, the rude bastard. “Sienna’s my assistant, she can sign for it.”
“I’m not a delivery boy, you fucking muppet!” Lenny said through gritted teeth. The tone grabbed Duvall’s attention and he turned to face his agitated interlocutor.
“Then what do you want? You want an autograph, contact my secretary, but I don’t have time for idle chit-chat.”
“My name,” The Guv’nor began, fighting back the urge to blitzkrieg this goon, “is Lenny Lansbury. I’m here for a meeting to discuss a contract.”
“Contract?” Something on the screen caught Duvall’s attention and he exploded with rage, launching one of his shoes at the monitor. “I want this punk gone! He’s a waste of my time!”
Lenny peered at the monitor, he could see a wrestling match taking place. It was actually the infamous dark match before that week’s Meltdown went live – Jake Youngblood, on his final chance to impress, against the well-established APW jobber Mr. Dangerous. The match itself was highly forgettable, Youngblood struggling to get the better of his opponent. Duvall had seen enough. Turning to Lenny he made an offer.
“You want contract talks? Then show me your worth and take out that trash.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want that piece of shit outta my ring NOW! We go live in five.”
And that was that. So much for a change of life. Less than five minutes in the building and The Guv’nor was already a hired thug for some arsehole who wouldn’t do his own bidding. It was just Duvall’s luck, and Youngblood’s misfortune, that The Guv’nor was an expert in waste disposal, but at least this one he wouldn’t have to toss into the river.
The Guv’nor’s first act as an APW Megastar never went live, but it did leave a lasting impression on those people in attendance; such was the brutality. Merely a shape of what was to come. Poor Jake Youngblood would never be seen again.
*
Fifteen minutes Lenny found himself inside Duvall’s makeshift office, a cup of cheap machine coffee nursed in his hands.
“Very impressive, er, shall I call you Lenny, Guv’nor, what?” Duvall said with genuine confusion.
“You can call me whatever the fuck you want, sunshine, as long as the cheques don’t bounce.”
“Haha! A man after my own heart. But seriously, Guv’nor, I like someone who can take initiative and seize the opportunities given to him, unlike that son of a bitch you dealt with earlier. In just a few months I’ve made Meltdown the most scintillating show in America. Forget about Overdrive, which is so bloated with ego that anything fresh is smothered by its enormous belly; and as for Asylum, well Schmidt can keep that feral lot. No, you’ve done the right thing by coming to APW and especially Meltdown. This is the right place for top talent.”
“Sounds good to me, mate. All I want is a platform make use of my talents.”
“Stick with me Guv’nor and I’ll take you to the top. Nobody in this business serves talent better than me.”
The grin Duvall gave Lenny was supposed to convey warmth and trust, but Lenny knew a slimy customer when he saw one; at that point he couldn’t help but wonder whether he had on his person some kind of sleaze magnet. First this Mr. Black character, now this ropey prick. He could feel the knife in his back already.
“So what’s your story,” Duvall eventually asked.
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” Lenny lied. “I’m just an honest pilgrim seeking new lands and new opportunities. Where better than America, land of the opportunity, yeah?”
“Well I’m going to throw you a bone,” Duvall said through that slimy grin of his. “I’m going to offer you a contract; standard sort of thing, it’s a short-term contract with a basic package of pay, with incentives based on appearances and performance. But after a month, if it’s working out, I’m sure I can offer you something a little more secure.”
Duvall pulled out the contract, but before handing it over to Lenny he seemed to notice something else in the file.
“What is ‘Touchstone’? I can see the application was made by them on your behalf.”
“They’re my representatives, agents, nothing to worry to about.”
“Are they?”
Duvall glared at Lenny.
“Because I won’t tolerate any funny business, you understand? This is MY show, and I won’t have third party organisations trying to muscle in on my turf.”
Lenny held his hands up, a plea of innocence.
“Because I’ve seen it happen,” Duvall continued, “and I won’t drop the ball and get caught with my pants down like Jeff on Overdrive, letting those parasites The Sindicate run amok with free license.”
“Straight up, bruv, I got no ‘funny business’ in mind. I’m just here to beat people up and make a lot of money. Forget about ‘Touchstone’, their just a bunch of pen-pushers managing my affairs.”
“Glad to hear it. That’s the thing with having power like I do: people plotting conspiracies everywhere. But I’m on top of it all, unlike that fool Jeff. Canadian, you know. Their problem is too much fresh air and not enough common sense inside the head. And they eat moose,” Duvall said with mock disgust, “that ain’t natural.”
Duvall handed Lenny the contract, which he duly signed.
“That’s it Guv’nor, you’re now officially an APW Megastar, exclusive to Meltdown. Now get out there and start making me some money.”
*
Book I: Beginnings
Chapter II
Chapter II
At the beginning of 2013, having fled London to escape the gangsters at his heels, Lenny officially jumped into bed with the shady lawyer Mr. Black, and the “Touchstone” organisation he represented. A new life beckoned in the land of opportunity for Lenny and his long-suffering fiancé Cheryl ‘Cher’ Underwood; it was tough to leave everything they ever knew behind, but Lenny felt the fruit was ripe for picking in the land where the dollar reigned supreme.
So with his ‘Touchstone’ contract signed, Lenny jetted off to Los Angeles – the world’s biggest whore to the $ - to plead his case for an Action Packed Wrestling contract. In his favour was the violence and brutality bred into him by the callous streets of London’s east end, an education from the most devious criminal minds, and a fairly respectable placing as a free agent in APW’s recent showcase event – Survive & Conquer. There was one man he had to convince – Meltdown General Manager Alexander Duvall – and a meeting with Duvall was the sole reason for Lenny being in L.A. on this day.
I remember that day clearly now, even to the very date. It was Monday 4th February 2013 when The Guv’nor turned up at L.A. Coliseum Sports Arena. Immediately he commandeered the services of backstage lackey, with instructions to be taken to Duvall. A short walk through the labyrinth of corridors brought Lenny to his quarry; Duvall was stood watching a monitor, very expressive in his agitation.
“For fuck’s sake!” Duvall shouted, tossing away a clipboard in his grasp. “Can you believe this guy?”
Lenny approached, slipping on his aviators to complete the look of his crisp off-white suit and crushed grapefruit coloured shirt. “Alexander Duvall?”
“What?” Duvall barked, barely warranting Lenny eye contact before drawing his attention back to the screen. “Where did we find this bum? More importantly, what asshole convinced me to give him a contract?”
“My name’s Lenny Lansbury, but people round here will know me as ‘The Guv’nor’.”
“Yeah, my office is down the corridor,” Duvall replied, barely acknowledging Lenny, the rude bastard. “Sienna’s my assistant, she can sign for it.”
“I’m not a delivery boy, you fucking muppet!” Lenny said through gritted teeth. The tone grabbed Duvall’s attention and he turned to face his agitated interlocutor.
“Then what do you want? You want an autograph, contact my secretary, but I don’t have time for idle chit-chat.”
“My name,” The Guv’nor began, fighting back the urge to blitzkrieg this goon, “is Lenny Lansbury. I’m here for a meeting to discuss a contract.”
“Contract?” Something on the screen caught Duvall’s attention and he exploded with rage, launching one of his shoes at the monitor. “I want this punk gone! He’s a waste of my time!”
Lenny peered at the monitor, he could see a wrestling match taking place. It was actually the infamous dark match before that week’s Meltdown went live – Jake Youngblood, on his final chance to impress, against the well-established APW jobber Mr. Dangerous. The match itself was highly forgettable, Youngblood struggling to get the better of his opponent. Duvall had seen enough. Turning to Lenny he made an offer.
“You want contract talks? Then show me your worth and take out that trash.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want that piece of shit outta my ring NOW! We go live in five.”
And that was that. So much for a change of life. Less than five minutes in the building and The Guv’nor was already a hired thug for some arsehole who wouldn’t do his own bidding. It was just Duvall’s luck, and Youngblood’s misfortune, that The Guv’nor was an expert in waste disposal, but at least this one he wouldn’t have to toss into the river.
The Guv’nor’s first act as an APW Megastar never went live, but it did leave a lasting impression on those people in attendance; such was the brutality. Merely a shape of what was to come. Poor Jake Youngblood would never be seen again.
*
Fifteen minutes Lenny found himself inside Duvall’s makeshift office, a cup of cheap machine coffee nursed in his hands.
“Very impressive, er, shall I call you Lenny, Guv’nor, what?” Duvall said with genuine confusion.
“You can call me whatever the fuck you want, sunshine, as long as the cheques don’t bounce.”
“Haha! A man after my own heart. But seriously, Guv’nor, I like someone who can take initiative and seize the opportunities given to him, unlike that son of a bitch you dealt with earlier. In just a few months I’ve made Meltdown the most scintillating show in America. Forget about Overdrive, which is so bloated with ego that anything fresh is smothered by its enormous belly; and as for Asylum, well Schmidt can keep that feral lot. No, you’ve done the right thing by coming to APW and especially Meltdown. This is the right place for top talent.”
“Sounds good to me, mate. All I want is a platform make use of my talents.”
“Stick with me Guv’nor and I’ll take you to the top. Nobody in this business serves talent better than me.”
The grin Duvall gave Lenny was supposed to convey warmth and trust, but Lenny knew a slimy customer when he saw one; at that point he couldn’t help but wonder whether he had on his person some kind of sleaze magnet. First this Mr. Black character, now this ropey prick. He could feel the knife in his back already.
“So what’s your story,” Duvall eventually asked.
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary,” Lenny lied. “I’m just an honest pilgrim seeking new lands and new opportunities. Where better than America, land of the opportunity, yeah?”
“Well I’m going to throw you a bone,” Duvall said through that slimy grin of his. “I’m going to offer you a contract; standard sort of thing, it’s a short-term contract with a basic package of pay, with incentives based on appearances and performance. But after a month, if it’s working out, I’m sure I can offer you something a little more secure.”
Duvall pulled out the contract, but before handing it over to Lenny he seemed to notice something else in the file.
“What is ‘Touchstone’? I can see the application was made by them on your behalf.”
“They’re my representatives, agents, nothing to worry to about.”
“Are they?”
Duvall glared at Lenny.
“Because I won’t tolerate any funny business, you understand? This is MY show, and I won’t have third party organisations trying to muscle in on my turf.”
Lenny held his hands up, a plea of innocence.
“Because I’ve seen it happen,” Duvall continued, “and I won’t drop the ball and get caught with my pants down like Jeff on Overdrive, letting those parasites The Sindicate run amok with free license.”
“Straight up, bruv, I got no ‘funny business’ in mind. I’m just here to beat people up and make a lot of money. Forget about ‘Touchstone’, their just a bunch of pen-pushers managing my affairs.”
“Glad to hear it. That’s the thing with having power like I do: people plotting conspiracies everywhere. But I’m on top of it all, unlike that fool Jeff. Canadian, you know. Their problem is too much fresh air and not enough common sense inside the head. And they eat moose,” Duvall said with mock disgust, “that ain’t natural.”
Duvall handed Lenny the contract, which he duly signed.
“That’s it Guv’nor, you’re now officially an APW Megastar, exclusive to Meltdown. Now get out there and start making me some money.”
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #1)
I’m broadcasting this message, as you can glazzy, from the skydeck at the top of the Willis Tower, according to the info sheet I got here it’s the tallest building in America, rising nearly 2,000 feet above the ground. That’s what I love about America: it’s so big, bold and brash. Everything here is supersized, the dreams and the ambitions included.
I get America, I really do yeah. It’s like everything has be the best possible front, every time you yanks have to put the best possible face on innit. I get that. Back in my neck of the woods, Londontown, I see it everywhere. Geezers trying to show themselves off whether it be being blinged up to the eyeballs, or driving a stolen Merc; that’s what it means to be a rudeboy in the places where I was bred: to show everyone else that you’re better than they is by demonstrating how well you’ve made it in life.
That’s why I always wanted to come to America, to get my shot at making it, because America is all about that brashness, you know what I mean, bruv? You say: we got the wealthiest and the best people here ‘cause we got the biggest buildings, the biggest cars, the biggest entertainment, the most guns and even the worst storms. Underneath it all what America is telling the world is ‘we got the biggest dick, bruv’. I get it. And with all these yankee dollars floating about the place I’m thinking to myself I want a piece of that good ‘ol American pie. Then when I’ve made my name, elevated by fame and fortune, I can go back to all those who tried to put me down and ask ‘wanna drop your trews now, bruv’, ‘cause I’ve got added inches.
In the wrestling biz, above all else, no-one is as brash and bold as Action Packed Wrestling. I see the way you people operate, dropping your strides and waving your John Thomas in all its bulging glory for the world to see: yeah wrestling world, bring it, you say, bring 100 of your best, we’ll have a little foreplay and flirtation, but ultimately we’re not the ones getting seen to up the Khyber. Terry Marvin – what a ledge! He epitomises all of this, that man couldn’t have his cobblers on display anymore if he walked around in the buff. What a fucking hero!
So you want a rationale? Well that’s all you’re getting. I chose APW because it’s the biggest and the boldest; I see the shows and I like the look of, what do they call them, production values, yeah, that’s it innit: high production values. What that tells me is that APW is rolling in the dosh, and in my language that tells me one thing: this is where I gots to get paid, because this is the gig paying the big bucks, yeah.
That’s right I’m in this for the bread, wonga, dosh, cash, whatever you want to call it. I know some people in this world they like to consider themselves some kind of warrior poet preaching a cautionary tale about the perils of being a wrestler, or they have some agenda to try and change the world for the better. You want to cry into your pint, mate, I can point you in the direction of hundreds of boozers in the East End catering to the pathetic and discontent; you want to change the world, sunshine, then pick up a shovel and start digging some fucking irrigation trenches in bongo-bongo land for some Zulus who don’t have enough water for a cuppa.
None of that’s for me. I want the big house, the big car, a pair of big tits in my face whenever I want, and that shit don’t come for free. I want 20,000 raving lunatics screaming my name every night of the week. All of that comes from one result: smash some faces in that ring with the APW insignia. Start doing that and the dough will flow along with the women, the drugs, the cars and everything I need to live out a decadent retirement. What you see is what you get, my friends, and I ain’t gonna lie about that.
And how fitting that it all begins here in the place they call the Windy City, were my legend will begin as I blow a gale through this place like an unstoppable force of nature. You want to question that, just ask that mug I took out last week – I’m sure he could do with some help re-arranging his face.
Who was that guy? Fucks knows. What did he mean to me? Even less than the piss I expel every morning. He was a statement of intent, and even if the televised audience didn’t see it, I know every soul in the back did, every bloke, bird and kiddy in the crowd – and they will have spoken and thought about it. This week I make an even bigger statement when I step into the ring with three ‘hench geezers’ Duvall has laid out for me.
Trevor Hyatt. Listen bruv, this is a business that runs on confidence, and I understand the need for every fighter to step through those ropes with his chest puffed out. That’s our psychology, like a clowder of manic tom cats with their hackles up, trying to show the others whose the guv yeah. But here’s the thing Trev, it’s not the hackles that get you through the fight, it’s the claws mate. See, I hear you’ve got some credentials behind you, things you achieved elsewhere that I’m supposed to believe are worthwhile; and while you got your propaganda machine going it all sounds real hench-like. But suppose I tell you I put a shooter to many a rudeboy’s head and never looked back – you going to step out with a bullet proof vest? This is different times and different places, with different rules.
All I’ve seen from you Trev is a scrappy win against some mug who went down faster than my missus when I toss her some notes. Facts are facts as eggs are eggs, and if you laid a big golden one right now in front of me it wouldn’t deter me from the view that when we step toe to toe in Chicago I’ll make your brain drip out your ears faster than I did Jake Youngblood.
Nowadays you can’t go anywhere without bumping into some kind of bleeding idealist. Usually I come across this grotty student sort, with their banners and placards – the birds are good for a bit of the old in-out-in-out and usually the posh nobs have pounds flowing out their arses when you flash ‘em a blade – but to find one in a world where rapid fire fists beats loose gums is vexing.
But I know this sort, and while I’ve no fancy serving up a psychological number like that mental Chinese bitch, I certainly have experience of these fancy thinkers. They promise you green meadows, luscious streams and fragrant flowers, but instead you’re offered a sack full of farmer’s slop. They take your money, but worse still, your soul these idealists, and there’s no refund policy. I don’t know what sort of mission Warren Peace has to revolutionise the wrestling world, or whether he still holds true to those principles, and on my old man’s grave I couldn’t give a pint of piss either.
What vexes me is not that he fancies himself as some kind of freethinker, but the attitude he carries with these lofty notions. The streets that dragged me from nipper to manhood taught me to beware of these carpetbaggers who roam the streets; it is mistrustful the way they carry themselves as if above the rest. I see this same gait about you Warren; the way you condescend the environment around you, like you are owed something better and it’s a matter of time before it is given to you. Why? Because you had a set of nuts in 2011 and five minutes of fame carrying the tag belts and some brass award? Wakey wakey, sunshine, it’s 2013 and me, Christian Kane, Donald Deruty, Amy Zing, and even magic mushrooms himself Trevor Hyatt aren’t interested in these turds you’re selling as bars of gold.
The truth is I achieved more in the lavvy this morning than this prized geezer has in the last twelve months. Maybe that’s the point: all these little nuggets of wisdom Warren has for us, about how we should run our affairs, this aloof bravado is compensation for the fact that nobody gives a monkey’s arsehole about him anymore. Wazza, you ain’t cooler than school, so pick up a spade and start shovelling shit like the rest of us, matey.
Speaking of disappointments, there’s Donald Deruty who has more quack than Donald Duck, but even smaller cobblers if appearances are to be judged. But then again, you did put up that sterling effort against Kurt Noble-NO! MY BAD! That was the other one yeah. Apologies, bruv.
So brushing that aside, what have you done Donboy, other than occasionally quack out of that shadow created by your tag partner? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to put a geezer down so readily, but you’ve been cashing cheques here since November – what have you been doing, thumbing your arsehole for the past three months?
Listen Donny, like Warren, I respect a man for wanting to better himself, but sometimes you have to admit you’re the wheels and not the driver. All the noises I’m getting from you, bruv, is next time this, next time that – you’re always looking to the next time!
When you couldn’t beat Kane, you said you would step up next time; then S & C, and what? Oh yeah, you’ll do better next time. What about now, my son? It’s time to step up because the world won’t stop turning for you to pull your hand out of pants and lick your fingers clean. That legacy you keep quacking on about, believe it or not, it begins on Meltdown. Forget about Overdrive: you’re like a man without a rocket looking longingly at the moon, and the grass won’t be greener in the other valley if you can’t even sow your seeds in this one.
Listen here, Donny, I’m not a man blessed with the gifts of great brains, but it’s not beyond me to teach a lesson or two. So, next Monday, I promise you I’ll give you a first-hand look at an exhibition in taking the initiative and making a real impact around here.
You’ll all see what it means to be...
End.
I’m broadcasting this message, as you can glazzy, from the skydeck at the top of the Willis Tower, according to the info sheet I got here it’s the tallest building in America, rising nearly 2,000 feet above the ground. That’s what I love about America: it’s so big, bold and brash. Everything here is supersized, the dreams and the ambitions included.
I get America, I really do yeah. It’s like everything has be the best possible front, every time you yanks have to put the best possible face on innit. I get that. Back in my neck of the woods, Londontown, I see it everywhere. Geezers trying to show themselves off whether it be being blinged up to the eyeballs, or driving a stolen Merc; that’s what it means to be a rudeboy in the places where I was bred: to show everyone else that you’re better than they is by demonstrating how well you’ve made it in life.
That’s why I always wanted to come to America, to get my shot at making it, because America is all about that brashness, you know what I mean, bruv? You say: we got the wealthiest and the best people here ‘cause we got the biggest buildings, the biggest cars, the biggest entertainment, the most guns and even the worst storms. Underneath it all what America is telling the world is ‘we got the biggest dick, bruv’. I get it. And with all these yankee dollars floating about the place I’m thinking to myself I want a piece of that good ‘ol American pie. Then when I’ve made my name, elevated by fame and fortune, I can go back to all those who tried to put me down and ask ‘wanna drop your trews now, bruv’, ‘cause I’ve got added inches.
In the wrestling biz, above all else, no-one is as brash and bold as Action Packed Wrestling. I see the way you people operate, dropping your strides and waving your John Thomas in all its bulging glory for the world to see: yeah wrestling world, bring it, you say, bring 100 of your best, we’ll have a little foreplay and flirtation, but ultimately we’re not the ones getting seen to up the Khyber. Terry Marvin – what a ledge! He epitomises all of this, that man couldn’t have his cobblers on display anymore if he walked around in the buff. What a fucking hero!
So you want a rationale? Well that’s all you’re getting. I chose APW because it’s the biggest and the boldest; I see the shows and I like the look of, what do they call them, production values, yeah, that’s it innit: high production values. What that tells me is that APW is rolling in the dosh, and in my language that tells me one thing: this is where I gots to get paid, because this is the gig paying the big bucks, yeah.
That’s right I’m in this for the bread, wonga, dosh, cash, whatever you want to call it. I know some people in this world they like to consider themselves some kind of warrior poet preaching a cautionary tale about the perils of being a wrestler, or they have some agenda to try and change the world for the better. You want to cry into your pint, mate, I can point you in the direction of hundreds of boozers in the East End catering to the pathetic and discontent; you want to change the world, sunshine, then pick up a shovel and start digging some fucking irrigation trenches in bongo-bongo land for some Zulus who don’t have enough water for a cuppa.
None of that’s for me. I want the big house, the big car, a pair of big tits in my face whenever I want, and that shit don’t come for free. I want 20,000 raving lunatics screaming my name every night of the week. All of that comes from one result: smash some faces in that ring with the APW insignia. Start doing that and the dough will flow along with the women, the drugs, the cars and everything I need to live out a decadent retirement. What you see is what you get, my friends, and I ain’t gonna lie about that.
And how fitting that it all begins here in the place they call the Windy City, were my legend will begin as I blow a gale through this place like an unstoppable force of nature. You want to question that, just ask that mug I took out last week – I’m sure he could do with some help re-arranging his face.
Who was that guy? Fucks knows. What did he mean to me? Even less than the piss I expel every morning. He was a statement of intent, and even if the televised audience didn’t see it, I know every soul in the back did, every bloke, bird and kiddy in the crowd – and they will have spoken and thought about it. This week I make an even bigger statement when I step into the ring with three ‘hench geezers’ Duvall has laid out for me.
Trevor Hyatt. Listen bruv, this is a business that runs on confidence, and I understand the need for every fighter to step through those ropes with his chest puffed out. That’s our psychology, like a clowder of manic tom cats with their hackles up, trying to show the others whose the guv yeah. But here’s the thing Trev, it’s not the hackles that get you through the fight, it’s the claws mate. See, I hear you’ve got some credentials behind you, things you achieved elsewhere that I’m supposed to believe are worthwhile; and while you got your propaganda machine going it all sounds real hench-like. But suppose I tell you I put a shooter to many a rudeboy’s head and never looked back – you going to step out with a bullet proof vest? This is different times and different places, with different rules.
All I’ve seen from you Trev is a scrappy win against some mug who went down faster than my missus when I toss her some notes. Facts are facts as eggs are eggs, and if you laid a big golden one right now in front of me it wouldn’t deter me from the view that when we step toe to toe in Chicago I’ll make your brain drip out your ears faster than I did Jake Youngblood.
Nowadays you can’t go anywhere without bumping into some kind of bleeding idealist. Usually I come across this grotty student sort, with their banners and placards – the birds are good for a bit of the old in-out-in-out and usually the posh nobs have pounds flowing out their arses when you flash ‘em a blade – but to find one in a world where rapid fire fists beats loose gums is vexing.
But I know this sort, and while I’ve no fancy serving up a psychological number like that mental Chinese bitch, I certainly have experience of these fancy thinkers. They promise you green meadows, luscious streams and fragrant flowers, but instead you’re offered a sack full of farmer’s slop. They take your money, but worse still, your soul these idealists, and there’s no refund policy. I don’t know what sort of mission Warren Peace has to revolutionise the wrestling world, or whether he still holds true to those principles, and on my old man’s grave I couldn’t give a pint of piss either.
What vexes me is not that he fancies himself as some kind of freethinker, but the attitude he carries with these lofty notions. The streets that dragged me from nipper to manhood taught me to beware of these carpetbaggers who roam the streets; it is mistrustful the way they carry themselves as if above the rest. I see this same gait about you Warren; the way you condescend the environment around you, like you are owed something better and it’s a matter of time before it is given to you. Why? Because you had a set of nuts in 2011 and five minutes of fame carrying the tag belts and some brass award? Wakey wakey, sunshine, it’s 2013 and me, Christian Kane, Donald Deruty, Amy Zing, and even magic mushrooms himself Trevor Hyatt aren’t interested in these turds you’re selling as bars of gold.
The truth is I achieved more in the lavvy this morning than this prized geezer has in the last twelve months. Maybe that’s the point: all these little nuggets of wisdom Warren has for us, about how we should run our affairs, this aloof bravado is compensation for the fact that nobody gives a monkey’s arsehole about him anymore. Wazza, you ain’t cooler than school, so pick up a spade and start shovelling shit like the rest of us, matey.
Speaking of disappointments, there’s Donald Deruty who has more quack than Donald Duck, but even smaller cobblers if appearances are to be judged. But then again, you did put up that sterling effort against Kurt Noble-NO! MY BAD! That was the other one yeah. Apologies, bruv.
So brushing that aside, what have you done Donboy, other than occasionally quack out of that shadow created by your tag partner? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to put a geezer down so readily, but you’ve been cashing cheques here since November – what have you been doing, thumbing your arsehole for the past three months?
Listen Donny, like Warren, I respect a man for wanting to better himself, but sometimes you have to admit you’re the wheels and not the driver. All the noises I’m getting from you, bruv, is next time this, next time that – you’re always looking to the next time!
When you couldn’t beat Kane, you said you would step up next time; then S & C, and what? Oh yeah, you’ll do better next time. What about now, my son? It’s time to step up because the world won’t stop turning for you to pull your hand out of pants and lick your fingers clean. That legacy you keep quacking on about, believe it or not, it begins on Meltdown. Forget about Overdrive: you’re like a man without a rocket looking longingly at the moon, and the grass won’t be greener in the other valley if you can’t even sow your seeds in this one.
Listen here, Donny, I’m not a man blessed with the gifts of great brains, but it’s not beyond me to teach a lesson or two. So, next Monday, I promise you I’ll give you a first-hand look at an exhibition in taking the initiative and making a real impact around here.
You’ll all see what it means to be...
End.
