Post by Mad Mumf on Sept 18, 2013 20:20:26 GMT -4
Sometimes we set our eyes on a target so resolutely that we ignore the outside surroundings or overlook an important factor. Sometimes we even grow so focused on what's around us or what our goal is that we forget to case our gaze sometimes back upon ourselves. Ultimately this leads to let down or failure at a critical moment. It's at those moments, after those failures that those who are determined or of sound mind must pick themselves off, dust themselves off, and learn from their mistakes. In turn, the failure becomes a lesson and a catalyst for future success.
This is another one of those things that separates those with the ability to adapt and overcome from those without it. It holds true both in life and in any line of work. There will always be stumbling blocks and obstacles along with the occasional monkey wrench. What matters is how one adapts to them, overcomes them, or recovers from them if they stumble.
In the end, after your introspective moment, you return your attention to the target, having learned from the lesson and possessing a greater knowledge than you did during your last attempt, determined to achieve said target or goal.
The scene opens up to a windy night in Istanbul, Turkey, some time over he course of the last week. There are crowds everywhere, some tourists, but mostly locals, out enjoying a balmy early autumn evening. Tucked down an alley, a man stumbles drunkenly home wearing a pair of dirty khakis and a sweat stained t-shirt. His build belies the fact that, while once muscular, age has started to coax him into complacency and a lack of fitness. It is also evidenced by the hint of pudge hanging over the man's belt line and out from under his t-shirt.
A bottle of vodka is clutched in his hand, the label printed in a foreign language unreadable to the common viewer as he rounds a corner and makes his way down a dark and littered alley. The bottle doesn't last long, however as it slips from his grasp and tumbles to the hard cobblestone ground with a crash. The man curses in frustration in a foreign language and stumbles away, grumbling constantly.
He rounds another corner into another alley, this one in worse condition than the previous, and obviously did not expect anyone else to be around the corner as he bumps into another man, his face hidden by a hooded sweatshirt, only his eyes illuminated by the occasional puff on a cigar. The man with the cigar says something to the portly drunkard in the same language that the latter seemingly spoke a few minutes ago.
Hooded Man - Watch where you are going, jackass.
The fact that the hooded man speaks the portly one's language seems to surprise him, but also amuses him. He sways back and forth in the spot he's standing in.
Portly Man - Ahh. I did not think to find a fellow countryman in the armpit of Turkey, let alone in the foulest smelling part.
The hooded man makes a noise. It sounds to be something halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before he responds.
Hooded Man - Truth be told, I would prefer not to be here at all. But my business, however, demands that I must be, as does my code of honor.
Portly Man - Ahh yes. Honor is a strange and dangerous thing. It can find you in some of the worst places. *The man gestures around him as if to prove his point.* I find, personally that honor is overrated.
The hooded man drops his stogie on the floor and stomps it out before he pulls his hood off. The portly man inspects him in the insufficient lighting suspiciously. The man before him is Mad Mumf and is looking for him, but the drunken man has no idea as to either until he speaks to him in English.
Mad Mumf - That, my friend, is where you and I disagree. In fact, you are bound by an agreement to keep in contact with your handler in the U.S. Government and have been failing to do so. You've come here and have a ton of high profile bounty hunters out for your head. My honor demands that I get you out of here, regardless of whether you yourself have any honor or not. And also regardless of whether you smell like a distillery, Boris.
Boris begins to back away towards a door, his eyes wide in shock and begins speaking in a drunken stumble of English coated thickly with an Eastern European accent.
Boris - Who are you?! What do you want with me?! I told the Americans I was finished giving them information. I wanted out and they wouldn't get me, so I found my own way!
Mad Mumf - Boris, your way has caused alot of people alot of headaches, myself included. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone in these damn alleys without attracting the attention of every single other bounty hunter crawling around this city looking for you?!
Boris's eyes go wide as he misunderstands Mumf's statement, his English not being the greatest, and points at the man in the hoodie accusingly.
Boris - You are a bounty hunter!
Mumf sighs and shakes his head.
Mad Mumf - You're not listening to me Boris. I'm trying to help you. I'm not the bounty hunter. The bounty hunters are out there looking for you...
As Mumf gestures out to the vast city, his attention drifts away from the portly man just long enough for him to bolt, surprisingly fast for a fat man.
Mad Mumf - God damnit...
Mumf gives chase in aggravation, slowly gaining ground on the Serbian, who must have been a sprinter in his younger days. Just before Mumf reaches him, the large man rounds a corner. Mumf gets to the corner and turns it quickly, hoping to catch Boris. Instead he finds this...
Mad Mumf - Son of a bitch!
The exasperated pro wrestler turned hired government hand leans against a nearby wall and pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, dialing a number, practically punching the screen with the tip of his finger before holding the phone to his ear and covering his other ear with his free hand to block out the noise.
Mumf - Yeah, John? It's Mumf. The bastard got away. He's a slippery son of a bitch, that's how! Oh, don't you worry about that. I'm gonna get the bastard. Now I'm pissed. He'll be back stateside or at a safe house within another week's time.
Mumf looks down on the ground as John responds on the other end. He seemingly ignores him however as his gaze falls upon a few items tucked neatly together on the floor as if having fallen out of someone's pocket.
Mumf - Shut up John. I'm going to get him. And I know exactly where I'm going to do it.
Mumf bends down and picks up the items, looking through them and identifying a false passport and a train ticket bound for Amsterdam as the scene slowly fades to black.
As has been the case the last few weeks, the black screen fills with static and is lit suddenly with another graphic stating, "The following is a message from Mad Mumf"
The scene fades gradually from graphic to Mad Mumf riding in a compartment on a train, his eyes are focused entirely on a camera facing him as he begins to speak.
Mad Mumf - Last week, I gave A.C. Smith a challenge the likes of which I'd like to think he hasn't seen in a while, and was thoroughly impressed with the fact that he gave as good as he got. He fought well and ended up the victor this time out.
A.C. I'll offer my congratulations and my respect for how you conducted yourself after the match as well. It's appreciated. You don't see many people with that kind of common sense or courtesy in this business anymore.
That said, you are still an obstacle, and talented or not, respected or not, you still have something I want and you still will be fought tooth and nail any time we're in that ring together. I would expect no less from you either. I just want you to keep in mind, however, that you have not, and likely will not soon see the last of me or my desire for what belongs to you.
That's a conversation for another day though. Right now, my focus belongs elsewhere, and yet at the same time on a man who is relevant to the situation I found myself involved in last week. Leon Roberts is set to step foot into the ring with me, hoping to get his chance at A.C. Smith's Xtreme Championship. Here's a man who once again seems to view himself as some sort of otherwordly being. Or, at the very least, is attempting to portray himself as one. Perhaps this is my karmic penance for the times I attempted to do so myself. The thing is, you've seen one vampire, ghoul, ghost, goblin, or undead creature, and you have seen them all. And you, Leon Roberts, I have seen before in the faces of many opponents, some who have been successful, and some who have not.
I will say this, first and foremost. Of those who were, indeed, successful against me, if you look back, not one of them won due to some supernatural or otherworldly means. They won on sheer skill and the fact that on that night, they were the better man and capable of overcoming what I was able to throw at them. Keep all this in mind as you sit there on your...ahem...bone throne with your witchy woman. I've got one of those to. The reason she's like she is is because she likes the clothes and can kick ass. Plain and simple. She's not doing it to be the background actress in some Rob Zombie horror film remake.
You sit there and talk about people being puppets and wanting another shot at A.C. Smith and his title. You're damn near goading the man into giving you a chance at something you feel you want, when fact of the matter is, just like me, you went out there this past week, and do you know what you did?
You lost...
You lost just as I did and as several others did as well. And yet you seem to be of the mindset that because you have unfinished business with Smith, that you have an entitlement to the gold that he carries. I'm not going to come out and say that I deserve a chance at it again just yet, but I will say this. I was a challenge for him. I made him dig deep and show what he had. What did you do? You jumped him. Funny, but it doesn't sound to me like you are a contender. It sounds more like you are just another certified asshole looking for a little time in the limelight.
Tell you what, Leon, if you're the Virus, then you are looking at the cure right here. I am a problem solver and it seems to me that a virus, regardless of whether he's a satanist, some otherworldly voodoo monster, or a clown that lives in the sewer like the monster from Stephen King's IT, is a problem in need of solving. So, you know what Pennywise? Come to the ring on Thursday at Overdrive, make damned sure you're focused on the man who you are facing, and I'll give you all the spotlight you can handle. I'll show you what I've shown everyone in that ring so far, including the ones who've defeated me. I'll show you the hardest fight you have had in a long time, and may ever have in your entire life. Come to fight, Virus, because your cure is waiting, and in your case, the only cure is a nicely poised Death Sentence.
*Surprisingly, the scene fades to black at the end of that last brief statement from Mumf, as he is seemingly finished and has said all he needs to say.*
This is another one of those things that separates those with the ability to adapt and overcome from those without it. It holds true both in life and in any line of work. There will always be stumbling blocks and obstacles along with the occasional monkey wrench. What matters is how one adapts to them, overcomes them, or recovers from them if they stumble.
In the end, after your introspective moment, you return your attention to the target, having learned from the lesson and possessing a greater knowledge than you did during your last attempt, determined to achieve said target or goal.
The scene opens up to a windy night in Istanbul, Turkey, some time over he course of the last week. There are crowds everywhere, some tourists, but mostly locals, out enjoying a balmy early autumn evening. Tucked down an alley, a man stumbles drunkenly home wearing a pair of dirty khakis and a sweat stained t-shirt. His build belies the fact that, while once muscular, age has started to coax him into complacency and a lack of fitness. It is also evidenced by the hint of pudge hanging over the man's belt line and out from under his t-shirt.
A bottle of vodka is clutched in his hand, the label printed in a foreign language unreadable to the common viewer as he rounds a corner and makes his way down a dark and littered alley. The bottle doesn't last long, however as it slips from his grasp and tumbles to the hard cobblestone ground with a crash. The man curses in frustration in a foreign language and stumbles away, grumbling constantly.
He rounds another corner into another alley, this one in worse condition than the previous, and obviously did not expect anyone else to be around the corner as he bumps into another man, his face hidden by a hooded sweatshirt, only his eyes illuminated by the occasional puff on a cigar. The man with the cigar says something to the portly drunkard in the same language that the latter seemingly spoke a few minutes ago.
Hooded Man - Watch where you are going, jackass.
The fact that the hooded man speaks the portly one's language seems to surprise him, but also amuses him. He sways back and forth in the spot he's standing in.
Portly Man - Ahh. I did not think to find a fellow countryman in the armpit of Turkey, let alone in the foulest smelling part.
The hooded man makes a noise. It sounds to be something halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before he responds.
Hooded Man - Truth be told, I would prefer not to be here at all. But my business, however, demands that I must be, as does my code of honor.
Portly Man - Ahh yes. Honor is a strange and dangerous thing. It can find you in some of the worst places. *The man gestures around him as if to prove his point.* I find, personally that honor is overrated.
The hooded man drops his stogie on the floor and stomps it out before he pulls his hood off. The portly man inspects him in the insufficient lighting suspiciously. The man before him is Mad Mumf and is looking for him, but the drunken man has no idea as to either until he speaks to him in English.
Mad Mumf - That, my friend, is where you and I disagree. In fact, you are bound by an agreement to keep in contact with your handler in the U.S. Government and have been failing to do so. You've come here and have a ton of high profile bounty hunters out for your head. My honor demands that I get you out of here, regardless of whether you yourself have any honor or not. And also regardless of whether you smell like a distillery, Boris.
Boris begins to back away towards a door, his eyes wide in shock and begins speaking in a drunken stumble of English coated thickly with an Eastern European accent.
Boris - Who are you?! What do you want with me?! I told the Americans I was finished giving them information. I wanted out and they wouldn't get me, so I found my own way!
Mad Mumf - Boris, your way has caused alot of people alot of headaches, myself included. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone in these damn alleys without attracting the attention of every single other bounty hunter crawling around this city looking for you?!
Boris's eyes go wide as he misunderstands Mumf's statement, his English not being the greatest, and points at the man in the hoodie accusingly.
Boris - You are a bounty hunter!
Mumf sighs and shakes his head.
Mad Mumf - You're not listening to me Boris. I'm trying to help you. I'm not the bounty hunter. The bounty hunters are out there looking for you...
As Mumf gestures out to the vast city, his attention drifts away from the portly man just long enough for him to bolt, surprisingly fast for a fat man.
Mad Mumf - God damnit...
Mumf gives chase in aggravation, slowly gaining ground on the Serbian, who must have been a sprinter in his younger days. Just before Mumf reaches him, the large man rounds a corner. Mumf gets to the corner and turns it quickly, hoping to catch Boris. Instead he finds this...
Mad Mumf - Son of a bitch!
The exasperated pro wrestler turned hired government hand leans against a nearby wall and pulls a cell phone out of his pocket, dialing a number, practically punching the screen with the tip of his finger before holding the phone to his ear and covering his other ear with his free hand to block out the noise.
Mumf - Yeah, John? It's Mumf. The bastard got away. He's a slippery son of a bitch, that's how! Oh, don't you worry about that. I'm gonna get the bastard. Now I'm pissed. He'll be back stateside or at a safe house within another week's time.
Mumf looks down on the ground as John responds on the other end. He seemingly ignores him however as his gaze falls upon a few items tucked neatly together on the floor as if having fallen out of someone's pocket.
Mumf - Shut up John. I'm going to get him. And I know exactly where I'm going to do it.
Mumf bends down and picks up the items, looking through them and identifying a false passport and a train ticket bound for Amsterdam as the scene slowly fades to black.
As has been the case the last few weeks, the black screen fills with static and is lit suddenly with another graphic stating, "The following is a message from Mad Mumf"
The scene fades gradually from graphic to Mad Mumf riding in a compartment on a train, his eyes are focused entirely on a camera facing him as he begins to speak.
Mad Mumf - Last week, I gave A.C. Smith a challenge the likes of which I'd like to think he hasn't seen in a while, and was thoroughly impressed with the fact that he gave as good as he got. He fought well and ended up the victor this time out.
A.C. I'll offer my congratulations and my respect for how you conducted yourself after the match as well. It's appreciated. You don't see many people with that kind of common sense or courtesy in this business anymore.
That said, you are still an obstacle, and talented or not, respected or not, you still have something I want and you still will be fought tooth and nail any time we're in that ring together. I would expect no less from you either. I just want you to keep in mind, however, that you have not, and likely will not soon see the last of me or my desire for what belongs to you.
That's a conversation for another day though. Right now, my focus belongs elsewhere, and yet at the same time on a man who is relevant to the situation I found myself involved in last week. Leon Roberts is set to step foot into the ring with me, hoping to get his chance at A.C. Smith's Xtreme Championship. Here's a man who once again seems to view himself as some sort of otherwordly being. Or, at the very least, is attempting to portray himself as one. Perhaps this is my karmic penance for the times I attempted to do so myself. The thing is, you've seen one vampire, ghoul, ghost, goblin, or undead creature, and you have seen them all. And you, Leon Roberts, I have seen before in the faces of many opponents, some who have been successful, and some who have not.
I will say this, first and foremost. Of those who were, indeed, successful against me, if you look back, not one of them won due to some supernatural or otherworldly means. They won on sheer skill and the fact that on that night, they were the better man and capable of overcoming what I was able to throw at them. Keep all this in mind as you sit there on your...ahem...bone throne with your witchy woman. I've got one of those to. The reason she's like she is is because she likes the clothes and can kick ass. Plain and simple. She's not doing it to be the background actress in some Rob Zombie horror film remake.
You sit there and talk about people being puppets and wanting another shot at A.C. Smith and his title. You're damn near goading the man into giving you a chance at something you feel you want, when fact of the matter is, just like me, you went out there this past week, and do you know what you did?
You lost...
You lost just as I did and as several others did as well. And yet you seem to be of the mindset that because you have unfinished business with Smith, that you have an entitlement to the gold that he carries. I'm not going to come out and say that I deserve a chance at it again just yet, but I will say this. I was a challenge for him. I made him dig deep and show what he had. What did you do? You jumped him. Funny, but it doesn't sound to me like you are a contender. It sounds more like you are just another certified asshole looking for a little time in the limelight.
Tell you what, Leon, if you're the Virus, then you are looking at the cure right here. I am a problem solver and it seems to me that a virus, regardless of whether he's a satanist, some otherworldly voodoo monster, or a clown that lives in the sewer like the monster from Stephen King's IT, is a problem in need of solving. So, you know what Pennywise? Come to the ring on Thursday at Overdrive, make damned sure you're focused on the man who you are facing, and I'll give you all the spotlight you can handle. I'll show you what I've shown everyone in that ring so far, including the ones who've defeated me. I'll show you the hardest fight you have had in a long time, and may ever have in your entire life. Come to fight, Virus, because your cure is waiting, and in your case, the only cure is a nicely poised Death Sentence.
*Surprisingly, the scene fades to black at the end of that last brief statement from Mumf, as he is seemingly finished and has said all he needs to say.*
