Post by Paradox on Aug 7, 2015 0:00:34 GMT -4
((OOC NOTE: SORRY FOR THE SHORTNESS AND EXTREMELY ABRUPT, WEAK CUT-OFF. I'M PISSED OFF WITH MYSELF HERE - I HAD REALLY GOOD IDEAS FOR THIS PROMO BUT JUST COULDN'T MAKE THE TIME TO DO IT JUSTICE. APOLOGIES KRIS, HOPEFULLY WE GET TO DO THIS AGAIN SOME TIME. WORD COUNT NOT CHECKED BUT WELL UNDER THE LIMIT.))
"'AVE IIIIIIIIIIT!'"
(In the space of a few seconds, a bustling scene erupts into bedlam. People who moments ago had been drinking and chatting excitedly on a packed street are running for cover, away from two groups of around fifty men - one group in blue soccer shirts, the other in red - who have suddenly, in almost prefect sync as if on cue, charged each other and launched into a wild brawl. Despite the apparently chaotic nature of the battle, it seems strangely well rehearsed - the front runners of the respective groups each quickly pick out a rival on the other side, usually a fairly close physical match, and they begin trading punches and head-butts. Behind this front line, the remaining men pick up chairs and bottles to hurl over the heads of the brawlers, at their enemies on the opposite side. The whole scene resembles a weird parody of medieval warfare - but one soldier isn't playing by the rules. Just behind the blue group's front line is a hulking mess of a man, bald headed with an incongruous bluebird tattoo on his neck and a build that suggests terrifying strength beneath ripples of fat that extend almost to the top of his head. This man is slinging chairs and bottles, but unlike his allies, his missiles are landing nowhere near the red-shirted mob. At first it looks like simple drunken incompetence, but on observation it becomes clear that he is aiming away from the melee, towards the fleeing bystanders. One such victim, a terrified man of about forty, goes down as an errant chair catches him squarely in the back, and... *PAUSE* the scene freezes.)
"'They should have known better than to get in our way'. That's what he said after that one."
(As the old security footage is paused, we zoom out to see Jac Glyndŵr, still sporting the faded remains of a black eye and swollen lip from last week's defeat to the Dying Breed, standing in front of a small flat-screen TV showing the tape. He's using a stick as a pointer to pick out the rogue chair-thrower on the screen. Before we have a chance to really know what's going on, he clicks a few buttons on the remote and a new scene comes up on screen. This time we're outside some kind of stadium, again the streets are packed and again, a riot is just starting to unfold. The blue-shirted mob are there, with roughly the same set of faces, but this time their rivals are in black and white instead of red - and they're badly outnumbered. The black-and-whites briefly put up a fight - then break and run, pursued by the blues. This time, Jac himself can be made out towards the front of the blue group. Occasionally, a straggler from fleeing black and whites will be caught and knocked to the ground, given a swift kick to the ribs, but it's clear this isn't about causing damage - it's about supremacy, about the fact that the enemy are running, not about catching them. One of the blues doesn't seem to have got the memo, however; the bald man with the bluebird tattoo from the previous video has dropped out of the chase and can be seen standing over one of the fallen stragglers in black and white. He grins as his victim curls into a foetal position on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself... and then the boots start to come in. The assault is becoming painful to watch when thankfully *PAUSE* Jac freezes the scene again.)
"What did he say that time... oh yeah. 'The little bastard knew what he was getting in to'. Or was it 'I told them I was going to wreck someone', or maybe 'he shouldn't walk into our bar if he's not ready for a scrap'. I lose track: but I suppose I should thank the guy, really. Without people like that, I'd probably still be just another football hooligan - that or I'd be in jail, or worse.
You see, APW fans, there's something that you should know about me. I used to be a real scumbag. I'm not proud of it but that's how it is is. I was that guy who was so bored with life, I got my thrills by meeting up with a mob of drunken thugs and getting into fights like those you just saw, and worse. We ruined people's businesses, backed up over-stretched emergency rooms with injuries from our stupid little hobby, wasted thousands of man-hours of police time dealing with our crap and yet... and yet even then, there was a code. We knew the hooligans on the other sides, we made sure we only fought with those who wanted a fight, we never killed anyone or gave anyone a beating they couldn't get over in a couple of weeks. For the longest time, I was thick enough to think there was some kind of honour in what we did. That's before I met the big lardy bastard from the video clips. He didn't just want to win the fights, he wanted to ruin people, and he actually took pleasure in picking on random bystanders.
So why am I telling you all this? Well, the thing is I got out of that life not because I didn't want the fights - I need them more than ever - but because I wanted to fight with some kind of honour. When I found wrestling, I thought I'd found that world, a world where you might rip someone apart in the ring, you might hate their guts, might try to knock them out cold or put them through all kinds of pain, but you always, ALWAYS know that there's a line you won't cross. Even if you don't respect the opponent, you respect the code and you expect them to do the same.
So imagine the sinking feeling I got last week when I checked out the Deception pre-show, only to see that same crazy, malicious bastard from my past staring out at me from the screen. Oh sure, it may not have LOOKED like the same person - you'd be forgiven for thinking that a five-foot six, red haired American woman can't possibly be the same person as a six-foot two bald middle-aged Welshman - and I'd have heard the same until I heard the same crappy, self-serving justifications coming out of her mouth. Rachel, you want to throw yourself into submission holds with no regard for safety and then blame your opponents because they 'don't know when to tap'? Nah, you can't get away with that. You see, because you're little, because you can wrestle with the best of them and you've got just enough charisma to make your mental problems seem kooky and cute, people don't see you for what you are, but I do. I've been around enough thugs and scumbags to know a dangerous nutjob when I see one and you, Rachel, are one of the worst I've seen. Now I'm not going to shed any tears for Raven Starr, because maybe just maybe she DID bring what happened upon herself, but if you're going to try and kid me, kid the fans, kid the locker room, that you're some kind of honourable submissionist who only goes that far against opponents who won't tap, then you and me are going to have a BIG problem. I've SEEN how you throw your body through that finisher of yours - and I'll be the first to admit it's a hell of a move - and what you do is DESIGNED to rip ligaments and shorten careers. Well Rachel, all I can say is that if you want MY arm, just try and take it. I'll see you at Deception.
(Scene fades out.)
"'AVE IIIIIIIIIIT!'"
(In the space of a few seconds, a bustling scene erupts into bedlam. People who moments ago had been drinking and chatting excitedly on a packed street are running for cover, away from two groups of around fifty men - one group in blue soccer shirts, the other in red - who have suddenly, in almost prefect sync as if on cue, charged each other and launched into a wild brawl. Despite the apparently chaotic nature of the battle, it seems strangely well rehearsed - the front runners of the respective groups each quickly pick out a rival on the other side, usually a fairly close physical match, and they begin trading punches and head-butts. Behind this front line, the remaining men pick up chairs and bottles to hurl over the heads of the brawlers, at their enemies on the opposite side. The whole scene resembles a weird parody of medieval warfare - but one soldier isn't playing by the rules. Just behind the blue group's front line is a hulking mess of a man, bald headed with an incongruous bluebird tattoo on his neck and a build that suggests terrifying strength beneath ripples of fat that extend almost to the top of his head. This man is slinging chairs and bottles, but unlike his allies, his missiles are landing nowhere near the red-shirted mob. At first it looks like simple drunken incompetence, but on observation it becomes clear that he is aiming away from the melee, towards the fleeing bystanders. One such victim, a terrified man of about forty, goes down as an errant chair catches him squarely in the back, and... *PAUSE* the scene freezes.)
"'They should have known better than to get in our way'. That's what he said after that one."
(As the old security footage is paused, we zoom out to see Jac Glyndŵr, still sporting the faded remains of a black eye and swollen lip from last week's defeat to the Dying Breed, standing in front of a small flat-screen TV showing the tape. He's using a stick as a pointer to pick out the rogue chair-thrower on the screen. Before we have a chance to really know what's going on, he clicks a few buttons on the remote and a new scene comes up on screen. This time we're outside some kind of stadium, again the streets are packed and again, a riot is just starting to unfold. The blue-shirted mob are there, with roughly the same set of faces, but this time their rivals are in black and white instead of red - and they're badly outnumbered. The black-and-whites briefly put up a fight - then break and run, pursued by the blues. This time, Jac himself can be made out towards the front of the blue group. Occasionally, a straggler from fleeing black and whites will be caught and knocked to the ground, given a swift kick to the ribs, but it's clear this isn't about causing damage - it's about supremacy, about the fact that the enemy are running, not about catching them. One of the blues doesn't seem to have got the memo, however; the bald man with the bluebird tattoo from the previous video has dropped out of the chase and can be seen standing over one of the fallen stragglers in black and white. He grins as his victim curls into a foetal position on the ground in a vain attempt to protect himself... and then the boots start to come in. The assault is becoming painful to watch when thankfully *PAUSE* Jac freezes the scene again.)
"What did he say that time... oh yeah. 'The little bastard knew what he was getting in to'. Or was it 'I told them I was going to wreck someone', or maybe 'he shouldn't walk into our bar if he's not ready for a scrap'. I lose track: but I suppose I should thank the guy, really. Without people like that, I'd probably still be just another football hooligan - that or I'd be in jail, or worse.
You see, APW fans, there's something that you should know about me. I used to be a real scumbag. I'm not proud of it but that's how it is is. I was that guy who was so bored with life, I got my thrills by meeting up with a mob of drunken thugs and getting into fights like those you just saw, and worse. We ruined people's businesses, backed up over-stretched emergency rooms with injuries from our stupid little hobby, wasted thousands of man-hours of police time dealing with our crap and yet... and yet even then, there was a code. We knew the hooligans on the other sides, we made sure we only fought with those who wanted a fight, we never killed anyone or gave anyone a beating they couldn't get over in a couple of weeks. For the longest time, I was thick enough to think there was some kind of honour in what we did. That's before I met the big lardy bastard from the video clips. He didn't just want to win the fights, he wanted to ruin people, and he actually took pleasure in picking on random bystanders.
So why am I telling you all this? Well, the thing is I got out of that life not because I didn't want the fights - I need them more than ever - but because I wanted to fight with some kind of honour. When I found wrestling, I thought I'd found that world, a world where you might rip someone apart in the ring, you might hate their guts, might try to knock them out cold or put them through all kinds of pain, but you always, ALWAYS know that there's a line you won't cross. Even if you don't respect the opponent, you respect the code and you expect them to do the same.
So imagine the sinking feeling I got last week when I checked out the Deception pre-show, only to see that same crazy, malicious bastard from my past staring out at me from the screen. Oh sure, it may not have LOOKED like the same person - you'd be forgiven for thinking that a five-foot six, red haired American woman can't possibly be the same person as a six-foot two bald middle-aged Welshman - and I'd have heard the same until I heard the same crappy, self-serving justifications coming out of her mouth. Rachel, you want to throw yourself into submission holds with no regard for safety and then blame your opponents because they 'don't know when to tap'? Nah, you can't get away with that. You see, because you're little, because you can wrestle with the best of them and you've got just enough charisma to make your mental problems seem kooky and cute, people don't see you for what you are, but I do. I've been around enough thugs and scumbags to know a dangerous nutjob when I see one and you, Rachel, are one of the worst I've seen. Now I'm not going to shed any tears for Raven Starr, because maybe just maybe she DID bring what happened upon herself, but if you're going to try and kid me, kid the fans, kid the locker room, that you're some kind of honourable submissionist who only goes that far against opponents who won't tap, then you and me are going to have a BIG problem. I've SEEN how you throw your body through that finisher of yours - and I'll be the first to admit it's a hell of a move - and what you do is DESIGNED to rip ligaments and shorten careers. Well Rachel, all I can say is that if you want MY arm, just try and take it. I'll see you at Deception.
(Scene fades out.)
