Post by sampsoncyprus on May 5, 2013 5:49:45 GMT -4
Blog post on Sampsoncyprus.com
Sunday 5/05/13 1:45am
Let me start by saying that it is fucking hot. I am writing this from a boxcar filled with myself and some other folks traveling from Brazil up to Venenzuela. I guess the heat is to be expected in this part of the world. Definitely made worse by the way Im traveling. I have no idea how the other guys have been working this other than the couple members of the private jet club we seem to have. I can tell you that I absolutely do not have money to fly between these shows. Or, honestly, to stay in the tourist trap hotels in our destinations. The are asking 150$ a night PLUS for most of those places and this whole time Im thinking, you bastards dont make that in a month and you are asking me to pay that to you for the night? Fuck em. My plan is to find a hostel or a working girl who has a spot to go back to. Either way should be about 20 bucks for the night which is a lot more reasonable and in at least one of those cases might be a hell of a value.
You know, this whole business has been full of surprises. Signing with APW I thought Meltdown would be a pretty small show and that I would end up working locally. Instead, I was scheduled on a world tour immediately. It was a good thing I still had a passport to dust off or I would have had to wait for a domestic show to get started. Even in getting started: I thought I would work my way up slowly. I thought I would be working and all but I planned not to draw too much attention. Then I got here and first thing: met Jace Savage. You might say we got off on the wrong foot.
See guys like Jace have been pissing me off since I was a very young man. Starry eyed fuckers who walk in on the promise of their name or body or youth and just assume everything is going to go their way. That naive hope is repulsive. It isnt grounded in anything but morning wood and a sense of entitlement. It isnt just this industry you know. This problem is becoming more and more common and there is a real need to take these fellas down a peg. I view it as a personal responsibility, have for some time now.
If you have never met someone you hated immediately you may not understand this. The fact is Jace had everything going wrong for him from 'go'. It wasnt just that he called me a bum. It wasnt just that he insulted me by offering me a dollar and a meal to carry his bags. The truth is, it was the way he was just so convinced that he was going to succeed here. He was on his way through that parking lot like he was heading to goddamn brunch and a day at the races; carrying himself like a winner even though he had never been tested. I couldnt let that stand. A man earns the right to hold himself upright in that way and invites others to test him by exercising that right. Everything that's happened? I only accepted Jace's invitation.
Sure we've had some laughs along the way. I have anyway. I think he may finally be getting hip to the program. Maybe someday he will understand that winning isnt everything. For now, at least he is learning that the fight doesnt always end after the bell. And I think And I think he's getting scared. It's been three short weeks now. That was all the time it took for Jace to show himself for the belly-crawler that he is. He had illusions about being a hard man but I think those have mostly been dispelled. So what do belly-crawlers do when they realize they have strayed too far from home? They worm on over to Daddy. Turns out Jace's dad is a hard man. You can tell by the way he handles that boy. He beat that kid's punk ass just for opening his mouth. I guess we have that in common.
Last week I faced Niobe Martin. A lot was said before that match. Mostly by me. Mostly requesting that my genitals not be damaged. Niobe, if your reading this, thank you for not punching me in the junk. I am glad you decided to leave with both of your eyes intact. I gotta say, I was a little bit surprised. It seemed like this chick had no idea who she was fighting, so I honestly thought she might decide to take the gamble.
If you didnt see it: Niobe and I wrestled around for a bit. She had the upper hand, I had the upper hand, she had the upper hand and then I finished her off with a knee to to the belly from the top ropes. Pretty standard stuff. I wish I could be really proud of that victory but based on her promo shoot and her in ring spot from Meltdown it is clear that she is functionally retarded. I feel pretty bad about the whole business, actually. She apparently had not realized she was fighting me until she was actually in the ring with me. I'm also not sure what she thinks "nubile" means. That whole experience was very different. Like I said, she's scrappy. Definitely a fighter. Just not much of an engine driving that machine, you know?
This week should be different. London seems like a smart kid. Too cocky for my tastes. Smug, really. But smart. Seems like he has a good head on his shoulders. Making what he can as he can. I am concerned that he is spread a little thing. Law school, modeling, stripping and wrestling seem like very different jobs. It's gotta be tough to focus on excellence in all of them. But he probably dont think so. He probably has this idea that he is gonna be like some amazing mix of Indiana Jones and Beyonce. A jack of all trades engaging in as many superstar professions as possible can while you work your way through law school. Ridiculous. I think someone is likely to hurt that kid first.
-Sampson
A train arrives in Maracaibo, Venezuela with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust. As it edges to a stop at the platform many people begin to exit. Mostly travelers and tourists, well dressed and happy with looks that speak to vacations and lifelong memories being formed. Away from the platform, toward the back of the train: boxcars begin to slide open. People exit them carefully, helping one another down the steep drop to the gravel below. These people exit dirty, exhausted, clutching what baggage they have. A large figure exits and helps a few people down from the train with white hair caught on the filthy wind. Sampson steps away from the train, pulling a seabag over his shoulder. Suspending the bag for a moment he frees a hand long enough to light a cigarette and begins the trek into town.
The city is beautiful. Full of life of all kinds. Vendors sell chewing gum, ornate combs and knitwear from carts and tourists greet them with bright faces, burnt red but happy to suspend their own reality for a moment and enter negotiations with street vendors. Sampson stops briefly, speaking a few words to an old native woman with a cart full of apples. She smiles knowingly and directs him with a bony finger through an alley. Sampson nods his appreciation and continues through.
The population somehow becomes more dense, people packed into the streets filling an area that opens up into an enourmous plaza. He can see it a ways off and stops. Ahead, behind a few buildings the sharp white edges of a statue are seen. Sampson stands a long time, as though in thought. Finally he takes a step, and then another. His resolve is obvious.
Passing through the alley and into the plaza proper Sampson pushes halfway through the crowd of people. He doesnt need to be close. The majesty of the place carries. Sampson mutters as he tilts his gray head back, drinking in the sight.
Sampson: Wily bitch.
The route has taken him on an unexpected turn. Into the path and loving gaze of the Virgin of Chiquinquira. Sampson, like the many other passersby is powerless to resist. He stands facing the statue for a long time, contemplating its meaning. He visibly fights an urge, showing an uncharacteristic discomfort. His shoulders slump and he submits, bowing his head for a moment before making the sign of the cross. The motion seems awkward, as if not practiced recently. He turns his back to the towering white figure, broad shoulders adjust the bag on his frame and he moves on. A nearby child, impressed with the size of Sampson touches his arm.
Boy: What did you ask our lady for?
Sampson considers the question carefully.
Sampson: Forgiveness.
He pushes past the young man, leaving him to think. His legs feel heavy as he moves away. One foot in front of the other. Left right. Sampson finally moves out of the plaza, continuing along the route the old woman had pointed out. He reaches his destination at the end of an alley. The building stands filthy, paint peeling, within a few hundred feet of the shrine. Sampson makes his way in following the smells of liquor and cheap perfume.
The scene opens in an unfinished room. The boards are bare where they exist at all. In some areas remnants of what once might have been wallpaper cling to existence. The room is sparsely furnished, housing only a cot, a small wooden table with a chair and empty cans of cerveza. Light comes dimly from a lantern on the table turned way down. In a pair of jeans Sampson stands as a snow capped mountain, white hair falling around his shoulders. A cherry flashes on the tip of a cigarette dangling from Sampson's lip. In the brief burst of light a lithe figure can be made out in the cot, sleeping in his shadow. Sampson speaks, the late hour carries in a voice husky and gruff.
Sampson: APW, Sorry for addressing you at this late hour. Its been a long week of travel and I wanted to touch on a few key points before Meltdown. But we gotta be careful, these late night chats are getting to be a regular thing, people will start to talk.
The cherry lights again as Sampson pulls.
Sampson: Last week I had the unique pleasure of diving into Niobe Martin's guts. Knees first. This gave me my first legitimate win in APW but I think we all knew it was coming. I mean, she put up a little fight and all but... Come on... I am literally twice her size. It was an honest to goodness miracle that she survived. I heard she's fighting again this week? That's a tough cookie.
Exhaling, Sampson edges over to the table, taking a seat with a small groan in the lone wooden chair.
Sampson: I want to go on the record to state that I did not "go all pissy" after I threw my match with Jace Savage. I do not go "all pissy". I would also like to reiterate that I threw that match. I thought administering some frontal lobe damage to that kid would be more fun then laying on him for a few seconds. And honestly, I'm sure I was right and have no regrets.
With an annoyed look, Sampson launches into a gruff sounding speech.
Sampson: This kid London, I swear. These segments about all of his personal business... I have never seen such incredible self interest. Another member of this facebook generation, sharing too much too readily. Demanding to be the center of attention round the clock. You galavant around with your male models, professors, superstars. Hangin out and smokin the reefer. Producing drama having to do with people's mamas. No matter how you put a bow on it, your life seems to belong on The Jerry Springer Show.
He shakes his head, obviously disappointed before his eyes lock onto the camera.
Sampson: You really said you didnt need my help to win? You selfish little brat. Still too young to figure out that everything is not about you. My business with Jace predated your engagement. It took precedent. Your match was not important to me or anyone else but you. And frankly, Jace had your number. Just like I'd have had Jace's number if he hadn't turned around at the last second. Your victory was a byproduct of my business getting handled. Just like Jace's was the week before.
Leaning forward aggressively, Sampson brings his hand up to his mouth and pulls his cigarette away. He ashes it angrily and there is venom when he speaks again.
Sampson: You have talent? That's fucking adorable. This isnt wrestling camp. You arent trying out. No one cares about your capacity to succeed. Let me tell you something, son: this is not the time you want to demonstrate your talent. This is when you want to demonstrate your COMPETENCE. This is not about your talent. This is about execution. Knowing what to do and how to it. And then doing it until it is done. You have talent? I have experience. I have experience dealing with runts like you. I think you should prepare to get dealt with.
Sampson narrows his eyes.
Sampson: You have the gall to declare yourself KING? That is exactly the problem with you kids. You think you do rule by divine fucking right. Like you were born to have others at your beck and call. Where you would get an idea like that crawling out of a Philadelphia strip joint I have no idea. You threatened to end my career? Boy howdy. Let. Me. Tell. You. Bigger, better, and meaner have tried that trick and the closest it has come to happening was when I stepped wrong getting out of the shower a few years back. One day, God will come calling to cut me down, but until that day arrives I will be wading hip deep through punks like you. You dont have to tell me to fight like its my last time doing it, young man. I have ALWAYS fought EVERY battle like it would be my last one. No man has ever had to tell me that when you are getting paid to do a job, you should work your ass off.
Eyes closed, he reclines a bit, visibly attempting to calm himself.
Sampson: But you know, there is one thing we agree on. There has been more than enough talking. Let's just work this out in the ring. We'll get our chance and honestly, I can't wait. Really I cant. I think this is going to be a terrific learning experience for you. We will get in the ring, and fucking settle this. We will punch and kick and throw one another until one of us knows for sure that he is better. One of us gets to emerge from the pain and gnashing of teeth as the winner. You think this week will be a repeat of last week? Son, I think everyone knows my stance on promising a victory, but even if this match does end the same way your last one did... it will be a very different journey to that end.
There is a stirring in the cot. Sampson looks absently at it and its occupant before crossing his legs lazily. He turns out the lantern. The scene is dark for a few seconds and fades as it is illuminated again. A match touches the end of a cigarette.
Sunday 5/05/13 1:45am
Let me start by saying that it is fucking hot. I am writing this from a boxcar filled with myself and some other folks traveling from Brazil up to Venenzuela. I guess the heat is to be expected in this part of the world. Definitely made worse by the way Im traveling. I have no idea how the other guys have been working this other than the couple members of the private jet club we seem to have. I can tell you that I absolutely do not have money to fly between these shows. Or, honestly, to stay in the tourist trap hotels in our destinations. The are asking 150$ a night PLUS for most of those places and this whole time Im thinking, you bastards dont make that in a month and you are asking me to pay that to you for the night? Fuck em. My plan is to find a hostel or a working girl who has a spot to go back to. Either way should be about 20 bucks for the night which is a lot more reasonable and in at least one of those cases might be a hell of a value.
You know, this whole business has been full of surprises. Signing with APW I thought Meltdown would be a pretty small show and that I would end up working locally. Instead, I was scheduled on a world tour immediately. It was a good thing I still had a passport to dust off or I would have had to wait for a domestic show to get started. Even in getting started: I thought I would work my way up slowly. I thought I would be working and all but I planned not to draw too much attention. Then I got here and first thing: met Jace Savage. You might say we got off on the wrong foot.
See guys like Jace have been pissing me off since I was a very young man. Starry eyed fuckers who walk in on the promise of their name or body or youth and just assume everything is going to go their way. That naive hope is repulsive. It isnt grounded in anything but morning wood and a sense of entitlement. It isnt just this industry you know. This problem is becoming more and more common and there is a real need to take these fellas down a peg. I view it as a personal responsibility, have for some time now.
If you have never met someone you hated immediately you may not understand this. The fact is Jace had everything going wrong for him from 'go'. It wasnt just that he called me a bum. It wasnt just that he insulted me by offering me a dollar and a meal to carry his bags. The truth is, it was the way he was just so convinced that he was going to succeed here. He was on his way through that parking lot like he was heading to goddamn brunch and a day at the races; carrying himself like a winner even though he had never been tested. I couldnt let that stand. A man earns the right to hold himself upright in that way and invites others to test him by exercising that right. Everything that's happened? I only accepted Jace's invitation.
Sure we've had some laughs along the way. I have anyway. I think he may finally be getting hip to the program. Maybe someday he will understand that winning isnt everything. For now, at least he is learning that the fight doesnt always end after the bell. And I think And I think he's getting scared. It's been three short weeks now. That was all the time it took for Jace to show himself for the belly-crawler that he is. He had illusions about being a hard man but I think those have mostly been dispelled. So what do belly-crawlers do when they realize they have strayed too far from home? They worm on over to Daddy. Turns out Jace's dad is a hard man. You can tell by the way he handles that boy. He beat that kid's punk ass just for opening his mouth. I guess we have that in common.
Last week I faced Niobe Martin. A lot was said before that match. Mostly by me. Mostly requesting that my genitals not be damaged. Niobe, if your reading this, thank you for not punching me in the junk. I am glad you decided to leave with both of your eyes intact. I gotta say, I was a little bit surprised. It seemed like this chick had no idea who she was fighting, so I honestly thought she might decide to take the gamble.
If you didnt see it: Niobe and I wrestled around for a bit. She had the upper hand, I had the upper hand, she had the upper hand and then I finished her off with a knee to to the belly from the top ropes. Pretty standard stuff. I wish I could be really proud of that victory but based on her promo shoot and her in ring spot from Meltdown it is clear that she is functionally retarded. I feel pretty bad about the whole business, actually. She apparently had not realized she was fighting me until she was actually in the ring with me. I'm also not sure what she thinks "nubile" means. That whole experience was very different. Like I said, she's scrappy. Definitely a fighter. Just not much of an engine driving that machine, you know?
This week should be different. London seems like a smart kid. Too cocky for my tastes. Smug, really. But smart. Seems like he has a good head on his shoulders. Making what he can as he can. I am concerned that he is spread a little thing. Law school, modeling, stripping and wrestling seem like very different jobs. It's gotta be tough to focus on excellence in all of them. But he probably dont think so. He probably has this idea that he is gonna be like some amazing mix of Indiana Jones and Beyonce. A jack of all trades engaging in as many superstar professions as possible can while you work your way through law school. Ridiculous. I think someone is likely to hurt that kid first.
-Sampson
A train arrives in Maracaibo, Venezuela with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust. As it edges to a stop at the platform many people begin to exit. Mostly travelers and tourists, well dressed and happy with looks that speak to vacations and lifelong memories being formed. Away from the platform, toward the back of the train: boxcars begin to slide open. People exit them carefully, helping one another down the steep drop to the gravel below. These people exit dirty, exhausted, clutching what baggage they have. A large figure exits and helps a few people down from the train with white hair caught on the filthy wind. Sampson steps away from the train, pulling a seabag over his shoulder. Suspending the bag for a moment he frees a hand long enough to light a cigarette and begins the trek into town.
The city is beautiful. Full of life of all kinds. Vendors sell chewing gum, ornate combs and knitwear from carts and tourists greet them with bright faces, burnt red but happy to suspend their own reality for a moment and enter negotiations with street vendors. Sampson stops briefly, speaking a few words to an old native woman with a cart full of apples. She smiles knowingly and directs him with a bony finger through an alley. Sampson nods his appreciation and continues through.
The population somehow becomes more dense, people packed into the streets filling an area that opens up into an enourmous plaza. He can see it a ways off and stops. Ahead, behind a few buildings the sharp white edges of a statue are seen. Sampson stands a long time, as though in thought. Finally he takes a step, and then another. His resolve is obvious.
Passing through the alley and into the plaza proper Sampson pushes halfway through the crowd of people. He doesnt need to be close. The majesty of the place carries. Sampson mutters as he tilts his gray head back, drinking in the sight.
Sampson: Wily bitch.
The route has taken him on an unexpected turn. Into the path and loving gaze of the Virgin of Chiquinquira. Sampson, like the many other passersby is powerless to resist. He stands facing the statue for a long time, contemplating its meaning. He visibly fights an urge, showing an uncharacteristic discomfort. His shoulders slump and he submits, bowing his head for a moment before making the sign of the cross. The motion seems awkward, as if not practiced recently. He turns his back to the towering white figure, broad shoulders adjust the bag on his frame and he moves on. A nearby child, impressed with the size of Sampson touches his arm.
Boy: What did you ask our lady for?
Sampson considers the question carefully.
Sampson: Forgiveness.
He pushes past the young man, leaving him to think. His legs feel heavy as he moves away. One foot in front of the other. Left right. Sampson finally moves out of the plaza, continuing along the route the old woman had pointed out. He reaches his destination at the end of an alley. The building stands filthy, paint peeling, within a few hundred feet of the shrine. Sampson makes his way in following the smells of liquor and cheap perfume.
The scene opens in an unfinished room. The boards are bare where they exist at all. In some areas remnants of what once might have been wallpaper cling to existence. The room is sparsely furnished, housing only a cot, a small wooden table with a chair and empty cans of cerveza. Light comes dimly from a lantern on the table turned way down. In a pair of jeans Sampson stands as a snow capped mountain, white hair falling around his shoulders. A cherry flashes on the tip of a cigarette dangling from Sampson's lip. In the brief burst of light a lithe figure can be made out in the cot, sleeping in his shadow. Sampson speaks, the late hour carries in a voice husky and gruff.
Sampson: APW, Sorry for addressing you at this late hour. Its been a long week of travel and I wanted to touch on a few key points before Meltdown. But we gotta be careful, these late night chats are getting to be a regular thing, people will start to talk.
The cherry lights again as Sampson pulls.
Sampson: Last week I had the unique pleasure of diving into Niobe Martin's guts. Knees first. This gave me my first legitimate win in APW but I think we all knew it was coming. I mean, she put up a little fight and all but... Come on... I am literally twice her size. It was an honest to goodness miracle that she survived. I heard she's fighting again this week? That's a tough cookie.
Exhaling, Sampson edges over to the table, taking a seat with a small groan in the lone wooden chair.
Sampson: I want to go on the record to state that I did not "go all pissy" after I threw my match with Jace Savage. I do not go "all pissy". I would also like to reiterate that I threw that match. I thought administering some frontal lobe damage to that kid would be more fun then laying on him for a few seconds. And honestly, I'm sure I was right and have no regrets.
With an annoyed look, Sampson launches into a gruff sounding speech.
Sampson: This kid London, I swear. These segments about all of his personal business... I have never seen such incredible self interest. Another member of this facebook generation, sharing too much too readily. Demanding to be the center of attention round the clock. You galavant around with your male models, professors, superstars. Hangin out and smokin the reefer. Producing drama having to do with people's mamas. No matter how you put a bow on it, your life seems to belong on The Jerry Springer Show.
He shakes his head, obviously disappointed before his eyes lock onto the camera.
Sampson: You really said you didnt need my help to win? You selfish little brat. Still too young to figure out that everything is not about you. My business with Jace predated your engagement. It took precedent. Your match was not important to me or anyone else but you. And frankly, Jace had your number. Just like I'd have had Jace's number if he hadn't turned around at the last second. Your victory was a byproduct of my business getting handled. Just like Jace's was the week before.
Leaning forward aggressively, Sampson brings his hand up to his mouth and pulls his cigarette away. He ashes it angrily and there is venom when he speaks again.
Sampson: You have talent? That's fucking adorable. This isnt wrestling camp. You arent trying out. No one cares about your capacity to succeed. Let me tell you something, son: this is not the time you want to demonstrate your talent. This is when you want to demonstrate your COMPETENCE. This is not about your talent. This is about execution. Knowing what to do and how to it. And then doing it until it is done. You have talent? I have experience. I have experience dealing with runts like you. I think you should prepare to get dealt with.
Sampson narrows his eyes.
Sampson: You have the gall to declare yourself KING? That is exactly the problem with you kids. You think you do rule by divine fucking right. Like you were born to have others at your beck and call. Where you would get an idea like that crawling out of a Philadelphia strip joint I have no idea. You threatened to end my career? Boy howdy. Let. Me. Tell. You. Bigger, better, and meaner have tried that trick and the closest it has come to happening was when I stepped wrong getting out of the shower a few years back. One day, God will come calling to cut me down, but until that day arrives I will be wading hip deep through punks like you. You dont have to tell me to fight like its my last time doing it, young man. I have ALWAYS fought EVERY battle like it would be my last one. No man has ever had to tell me that when you are getting paid to do a job, you should work your ass off.
Eyes closed, he reclines a bit, visibly attempting to calm himself.
Sampson: But you know, there is one thing we agree on. There has been more than enough talking. Let's just work this out in the ring. We'll get our chance and honestly, I can't wait. Really I cant. I think this is going to be a terrific learning experience for you. We will get in the ring, and fucking settle this. We will punch and kick and throw one another until one of us knows for sure that he is better. One of us gets to emerge from the pain and gnashing of teeth as the winner. You think this week will be a repeat of last week? Son, I think everyone knows my stance on promising a victory, but even if this match does end the same way your last one did... it will be a very different journey to that end.
There is a stirring in the cot. Sampson looks absently at it and its occupant before crossing his legs lazily. He turns out the lantern. The scene is dark for a few seconds and fades as it is illuminated again. A match touches the end of a cigarette.
