Post by "The Hottest Shit Going" on Mar 16, 2010 16:30:48 GMT -4
As the music of Damian Dimtiri echoes in the eardrums of the numerous fans who packed the arena this week for Overdrive, I storm through the curtain leading to the backstage. My chest pumping as the adrenalin still coarse throughout my veins. The excitement of being in front of the fans is a rush like no other, a drug of sorts, but this shot of adrenalin isn't from the high a man gets from a jam packed rambunctious crowd. If you look close you can see the flaring of my nostrils, and the anger burning within my eyes. I flip a table over where the producers of the show go over tonights outline of events. I continue my rampage until finally I arrive in my locker room. The door is kicked open, and then violently slammed shut behind me. As I spin into the room with fury like a tornado Chubs my cameraman is startled.
"I...I...FUCK!!!"
Chubs just hangs his head as I place my hands on my forehead and slam down onto the couch with frustration and disappointment. We had a conversation prior to this weeks match that would almost set this very situation up, almost foreshadow this exclusive moment. My friendly fat cameraman showed some concern for the JESUS about four days ago. He knew my dislike for tag matches, and overall lack of trust when it comes to any man in this company. We sit in silence for a moment as I absorb the impact of what just happened out there. I take a towel and wipe the sweat from my brow.
"Those lights are fricking hot."
Chubs just nods in agreement with me as he knows I'm trying to mask the anger that is about to boil over. He has seen it a few other occasions. Then almost like a mind reader the pudgy guy steps aside as I come unglued. I leap from the couch kicking it back wards, and fly toward the locker with a lightening fast super kick denting it in. I follow it up with a solid right hand and in a split second my frustrations leave my body, well enough so that the chaos of violence just unleashed momentarily subsides.
"I'm fucking disgusted Chubs. Jason Royce...what a sausage mangler. I knew that fucker wasn't to be trusted. I knew it would be like I was going at it alone. That sack of shit couldn't handle a midget and a rookie. I mean he showed up to the ring...and for what? It was almost as if he wasn't even there. I can't help it if the sorry shit head can't hang with the big boys...you know what, fuck that. We had an easy run tonight, the only big boy standing out there under the lights was me. For God sakes man a midget and a baby puke that isn't fit to dust off my balls let alone step in the ring with me, and Jason Royce got worked over by both."
"Michael, I'm sorry man!"[/color]
"Sorry, there isn't a thing to be sorry for. What did you do. You were a friend who tried to warn me about the events that would unleash before my eyes this evening. You were the one who tried to explain to the JESUS that possibly I was stepping into a situation made for failure. I have one hell of a work ethic Chubs. People can say what they will, hell even I can make proclamations of simply just standing on the sidelines...but when push came to shove, when we were at risk for loosing the match, it was me who sprinted in the ring rearranging that ugly bastards jaw line with a super kick. As sad as this is going to sound, Damian Dimtiri didn't beat me this evening...Jason Royce did."
Chubs just looks at me with a bit of sorrow in his eyes.
"Deep in the rotten gut of this sack of shit that calls himself the New Breed he knows that he didn't get over on me. I went into that match offering up nothing to this young punk. He can spew all the trash he wishes about knowing Michael Lively, knowing how I roll, the truth is this arrogant bastard hasn't a clue of the shit pile he has just stepped into. His precious little girlfriend saved his sorry ass by pulling him out of the way of the Prelude. Jason Royce then decided enough was enough and did the only thing he good at and quit. That little fagot nailed me with his sub standard finisher, and bailed on our match leaving me high and dry. What happens next the phony crown price of the Blackwell Monarchy scored the "W" for his team by nailing the Full Throttle."
I sigh for a moment dealing with the fact that I just had to speak the words Full Throttle once more. The name is associated with pure disgust in the APW, it almost makes you want to throw up in your mouth. I shake off the cold chill, and clear my throat of the acid reflux that just rose to the surface by spitting into the trash can.
"This match tonight Chubs, it has done nothing but inflate this fuckers swollen cranium. It has given him a false sense of confidence. You can see in the walk he has around this place, the swagger he presents, this little dick snot feels he has already won, and is acting as if the belt is already his."
Chubs smirks with pleasure as I rattle off. You see the fat man knows just as I do that this self confident, arrogant, smug son of a bitch hasn't done jack shit in the APW. He has yet to prove to anybody that he in fact is worth the time of day. His mountain of success that he thinks has elevated him thus far is built on a bed of hay. Chubs knows just like I do that come Rasstlemania Michael Lively will storm into that ring and bring the flood of greatness with me washing out the shaky ground beneath this jack off's feet. In that instant Chubs sees a golden opportunity and picks up his camera. He knows just by looking in my eyes that it's time to fire off the first shot. He knows that my tongue is like a whip that cracks in the direction of my opponent signaling to the little sack of flesh that this indeed is a fight. They then know with the sting left behind that the opponent standing before them is one hundred percent The Hottest Shit Going. So Chubs does what he is paid to do and picks up the camera pointing it my direction. As I turn looking at the lens we know what time it is, and I begin cutting loose.
"Damian Dimitri, look at you fresh off the playground...let me tell you something kid this isn't one of your favorite Saturday morning cartoons, no Dora the Explorer, Bob the Builder or Sponge Bob Square pants here, the APW is far above the preschool league that you graduated from. Feeling all good about yourself aren't ya, because you got a big bad fancy diploma from the supposed hardcore icon, the sad pathetic hero of Long Island (like that says a lot). Your education for this great sport came from the Blackwell Academy, oh excuse me I think they call it something different these days. Hard to keep track of the constant name changes, possibly because the bastard keeps forgetting to pay the rent and decides with a new building comes a new name.
Now it goes by the House of Horrors. A fitting name for the birth place of deformed looking tree frog, incestuous little tampon like yourself. You bounce around with zero style, and absolutely no grace. I must tell you Damian if we were competing for medals you might get gold for your floor routine, but here we compete for championship belts, and that sloppy ass gymnastics bull shit will get you drop kicked in mid air. Your timing sucks, your skills are weak, and your heart is quite frankly made of paper. I'm going to crumple that shit, and show you it's as bout as useful as the diploma you received from that washed up, scarred, no title winning sack of horse shit mentor you had in Trevor Blackwell.
You see it's real obvious to all where you developed your training even if you didn't pollute us with the smelly shit that leaves your mouth every second, it's quite clear that you are the product of the Blasphemous Blackwell Barn. You have all the same attributes, the big mouth always running away with itself and not a lot in your bag to back it up. You have gone the way of the Blackwell Brainiac by trying to build an army behind you so that when you run those loose lips there will be a few other people around to absorb the beating coming your direction. You have tried to make a wall of security just like that pussy Trevor did. And here we are once more running the same song as I see Sabur standing over your shoulder this time. A copy cat, carbon copy of the sad shit that tormented the APW and so many other feds before it, and now it's your turn to shine like the turd your mentor was."
I chuckle a bit at the pathetic actions, and played out bullshit that Damian is bringing to the table. I get my self together because I know me laughing at his stupidity isn't really great presentable material for television so I will reserve my amusement for later.
"You, just like Trevor, also must be a fan of the day time soap opera because the theatrics that you have cooked up are almost Emmy worthy you douche wad. I seriously can't believe you dug up some broad who just so happens to share half of my DNA, my newly found sister and think this is supposed to shock me. Better yet it was supposed to rock the very foundation beneath the JESUS's feet wasn't it Damian? Think again retard.
That was a stupid move that would simply sum you up as an honorary Blackwell, and a bonafied cock knocker. Listen up and listen real good your ass tickling idiot, before you cooked up this plan you might have wanted to investigate the man you where trying to rile up. You are looking at a rugged son of a bitch that super kicks his mother in the face for simple entertainment, a man that can't stand the sight of the woman who birthed him. This very same man is really supposed to get all sentimental, and drip like a leaky snatch because you brought some slut forward claiming she is my sister. That just proves my mother was a whore all along, and as for the family blood thing goes...FUCK HER. I don't know her from a homeless man under the bridge begging for change, and tugging on his snausage.
Now throw in the fact that she is in deed a SHE, and that makes the JESUS even more disgruntled, and filled with hatred. Sluts can eat a dick and die, oh thats right you didn't know that I am card carrying member of the Woman Hatting Association of America. That means God knocked the balls off the dumbs ones, and I haven't a use for any of them. You on the other hand like your mentor associate yourself with the constant drama, the insistent nagging, and the ever present distraction of dumb cunts. This time it is supposed to be different because she's MY sister, this little tooth pick looking slut is supposed to be my distraction. Look at you man, it's sad it's pathetic, and quite disturbing. I saw the two of you and I must say I was waiting for Chris Hansen to leap from the closet at any moment. You looked like a pedophile trying to seduce a little girl with candy, my little sister none the less. A sister I am supposed to give three flying fucks about...how sadly are you mistaken."
With that I pause briefly smirking toward the camera. I take a deep breath to fill these heavenly lungs with air as I continue on with my verbal assault on this simple little stooge that will get bonked come Rasstlemania.
"You know Damian this whole family drama really should have it's own time slot on the ABC Family channel, it shouldn't be taking place on Thursday nights in front of the APW faithful. Seeing as I don't give a donkey fuck about the fans it makes no difference to me. I don't need family, never have and never will. You on the other hand are taking up where Trevor left off. Stepping in his foot print perfectly. Apparently the APW needed family drama since the Blackwell bullshit left the building, apparently we needed the sad excuse of a stable being born once more, and apparently the APW needed all this from you. The sad part is no one is impressed, and most of all they are really just sick to their stomach over you recent horse shit, your weak attempts to produce anything entertaining.
These actions of yours, this cooked up drama is how I know your little panzi ass is frightened like no one else has ever been. It's amazing because if you put this much effort into actually being a wrestler inside the ring you might have stood a chance against the JESUS. Instead you poured so much time and energy into trying to rattle the unflappable Savior of wrestling. You tried these silly mind games which in the long run not only have shown the world how delusional you are, but tell a sad story that you my friend watch way too much day time television. Sum it all up you are a pussy, scared of a real man, scared of the JESUS.
So enough Days of Our Lives, enough General Hospital, enough Luke and Laura this is Action Packed Wrestling you little cock monkey, and we don't serve up the drama like TNT. So instead of waiting around for our Day Time Emmy, let us get right into the truths here, un cover some cold hard facts. Trevor Blackwell and the APW are like a bad relationship, a heated couple if you will. They thought it was going to work, but in the end Trevor was nothing but poison, bad news, and most off all a huge tool fresh from the academy. APW was way better off starting a life apart from Trevor and the entire Blackwell family.
You Damian Dimitri are like the love child produced by Trevor Blackwell and the APW. You are the constant reminder of the mistake this company once made. People look at you and see the proverbial father of who's image you are created. People see the scum of the Earth Trevor Blackwell, the cancer, the plague that he was. When they look upon you, the young prodigy, the seed if you will, they see that same plague, that disease of the Blackwell name holding on like a leech. You are just a small embryo brewing in the belly of this company, and at Mania I will force this abortion. Thats right Michael Lively will be the coat hanger to travel up the uterus of our beloved APW, and destroy this bad memory, this horrible love child created in the disgrace of a tormented relationship.
I will yank you and the afterbirth that you are trying to create with the New Breed right out of the womb, and toss you all in the trash. Pro-choice is my stance, and I'm willing to put in the work to show my dedication to the cause if you know what I mean."
I stop looking toward the camera letting the harshness of my words sink on to the ears that will soon hear my wrath. Damian knows at this very moment that he might have bitten off a little too much.
"I have come way too far, traveled the road of success for too long to let some snot nosed little brat who thinks because he trained under the dirty thumb nail of a trash can superstar, take what I have earned. I have gotten every title this company has put forth. I hold the most victories in the APW, and I will be the first man ever to preform the controversial in ring Abortion when I ruin you and everything you think you stand for at Rasstlemania. You are nothing, a disgrace, simple pawn being used by Trevor to carry on his shameful legacy. I would be sick to my stomach if I were you, yet you seem very proud to carry his torch. So in carrying his torch you will taste the simple, sweet and bitter agony of disappointment just like he did so many times before. You are going to carry on a legacy of a man who couldn't hack it in APW, couldn't win the big one, couldn't get the job done, and even when the title was presented to him on a silver platter he fell short...thanks to ME!!!
You are also carrying on the Legacy of a man who didn't hesitate to choose his greed for gold over his friends. You see I paid Trevor to take out Sabur with the master plan of him getting a shot at the strap, he just was so blinded the lust he didn't realize that I would be the man standing on the other side of the ring. Trevor is like a silly puppet just waiting to be played. You whisper in his ear that the room is on fire, before he even checks, the son of a bitch is leaping out the window head first. That silly asshole got played over and over again.
Now here YOU are a product of that very game standing before me, and guess what I see...Checkers! Way to go stupid ass, this is Chess, a grown mans game, where thought comes into to play, strategy rules, where trying to read your opponent and their moves is the key to success. The child like drama that you have pulled makes you feel as if you are sitting with the advantage. It shows me you haven't done your homework, and proves to me that you aren't ready for the JESUS. You have put all your eggs in the basket, hoping that is enough to get the job done. You are hoping that this little swerve of my sister will give you the much needed advantage you will need to overcome the JESUS when the strap is on the line. The problem is you pulled the eggs to soon, come Mania you will be left with nothing but a basket of rotten yokes.
I see you, I hear you acting as if I'm left with three black checkers while you are sitting all puffed up and proud with your six red Kings. This reality that I will introduce you to will show you first hand we don't play middle school games here son, and let you know that you have been plugging away at the wrong board this entire time. I will pick you apart, eat you up, and shit your remnants all over the floor for people to simply trample over as they move on with their lives. You are nothing to the JESUS, and once that bell rings you will surely know why I am the Hottest Shit Going! Why I am the only Grand Slam champion of APW, and most of all the last man to beat the sorry son of a bitch that taught you everything you know.
This isn't Karate Kid Damian Son, in the real world Cobra Kai will bury a Miagi any day of the week. So enough drama, enough make believe, snap that ugly ass back into reality and welcome what is coming your way courtesy of the JESUS, with open arms...a heavenly stream of piss to put out the small flame of excitement you have tried to spark up in APW. Around these parts I am King, you have proved to be just a pawn, at Rasstlemania this will be Checkmate, Bitch!!!"
With that I strike the I am JESUS pose for the camera. As I hold the pose that strikes fear into the hearts of men, and sickens the stomach of millions of fans I am interrupted by the opening of my locker room door. Chubs spins around pointing the camera in the direction of my mother. I drop the pose as I feel the warmth of anger overcome my entire body. She shuts the door behind her looking my direction. I step sideways which can only mean one thing. In split second as Chubs pans out to capture both me and my mother in the frame I lung forward lifting my leg in the air. My boot heading right for the chin of the woman who not only brought me into this world but has tossed my into a shit storm with her neverending unraveling of secrets. This time, this kick, is going to feel so good. This time when I blast the jawbone of my mother with the heal of my foot it will be as if I just received the happy ending of a Japanese rub down.
"I...I...FUCK!!!"
Chubs just hangs his head as I place my hands on my forehead and slam down onto the couch with frustration and disappointment. We had a conversation prior to this weeks match that would almost set this very situation up, almost foreshadow this exclusive moment. My friendly fat cameraman showed some concern for the JESUS about four days ago. He knew my dislike for tag matches, and overall lack of trust when it comes to any man in this company. We sit in silence for a moment as I absorb the impact of what just happened out there. I take a towel and wipe the sweat from my brow.
"Those lights are fricking hot."
Chubs just nods in agreement with me as he knows I'm trying to mask the anger that is about to boil over. He has seen it a few other occasions. Then almost like a mind reader the pudgy guy steps aside as I come unglued. I leap from the couch kicking it back wards, and fly toward the locker with a lightening fast super kick denting it in. I follow it up with a solid right hand and in a split second my frustrations leave my body, well enough so that the chaos of violence just unleashed momentarily subsides.
"I'm fucking disgusted Chubs. Jason Royce...what a sausage mangler. I knew that fucker wasn't to be trusted. I knew it would be like I was going at it alone. That sack of shit couldn't handle a midget and a rookie. I mean he showed up to the ring...and for what? It was almost as if he wasn't even there. I can't help it if the sorry shit head can't hang with the big boys...you know what, fuck that. We had an easy run tonight, the only big boy standing out there under the lights was me. For God sakes man a midget and a baby puke that isn't fit to dust off my balls let alone step in the ring with me, and Jason Royce got worked over by both."
"Michael, I'm sorry man!"[/color]
"Sorry, there isn't a thing to be sorry for. What did you do. You were a friend who tried to warn me about the events that would unleash before my eyes this evening. You were the one who tried to explain to the JESUS that possibly I was stepping into a situation made for failure. I have one hell of a work ethic Chubs. People can say what they will, hell even I can make proclamations of simply just standing on the sidelines...but when push came to shove, when we were at risk for loosing the match, it was me who sprinted in the ring rearranging that ugly bastards jaw line with a super kick. As sad as this is going to sound, Damian Dimtiri didn't beat me this evening...Jason Royce did."
Chubs just looks at me with a bit of sorrow in his eyes.
"Deep in the rotten gut of this sack of shit that calls himself the New Breed he knows that he didn't get over on me. I went into that match offering up nothing to this young punk. He can spew all the trash he wishes about knowing Michael Lively, knowing how I roll, the truth is this arrogant bastard hasn't a clue of the shit pile he has just stepped into. His precious little girlfriend saved his sorry ass by pulling him out of the way of the Prelude. Jason Royce then decided enough was enough and did the only thing he good at and quit. That little fagot nailed me with his sub standard finisher, and bailed on our match leaving me high and dry. What happens next the phony crown price of the Blackwell Monarchy scored the "W" for his team by nailing the Full Throttle."
I sigh for a moment dealing with the fact that I just had to speak the words Full Throttle once more. The name is associated with pure disgust in the APW, it almost makes you want to throw up in your mouth. I shake off the cold chill, and clear my throat of the acid reflux that just rose to the surface by spitting into the trash can.
"This match tonight Chubs, it has done nothing but inflate this fuckers swollen cranium. It has given him a false sense of confidence. You can see in the walk he has around this place, the swagger he presents, this little dick snot feels he has already won, and is acting as if the belt is already his."
Chubs smirks with pleasure as I rattle off. You see the fat man knows just as I do that this self confident, arrogant, smug son of a bitch hasn't done jack shit in the APW. He has yet to prove to anybody that he in fact is worth the time of day. His mountain of success that he thinks has elevated him thus far is built on a bed of hay. Chubs knows just like I do that come Rasstlemania Michael Lively will storm into that ring and bring the flood of greatness with me washing out the shaky ground beneath this jack off's feet. In that instant Chubs sees a golden opportunity and picks up his camera. He knows just by looking in my eyes that it's time to fire off the first shot. He knows that my tongue is like a whip that cracks in the direction of my opponent signaling to the little sack of flesh that this indeed is a fight. They then know with the sting left behind that the opponent standing before them is one hundred percent The Hottest Shit Going. So Chubs does what he is paid to do and picks up the camera pointing it my direction. As I turn looking at the lens we know what time it is, and I begin cutting loose.
"Damian Dimitri, look at you fresh off the playground...let me tell you something kid this isn't one of your favorite Saturday morning cartoons, no Dora the Explorer, Bob the Builder or Sponge Bob Square pants here, the APW is far above the preschool league that you graduated from. Feeling all good about yourself aren't ya, because you got a big bad fancy diploma from the supposed hardcore icon, the sad pathetic hero of Long Island (like that says a lot). Your education for this great sport came from the Blackwell Academy, oh excuse me I think they call it something different these days. Hard to keep track of the constant name changes, possibly because the bastard keeps forgetting to pay the rent and decides with a new building comes a new name.
Now it goes by the House of Horrors. A fitting name for the birth place of deformed looking tree frog, incestuous little tampon like yourself. You bounce around with zero style, and absolutely no grace. I must tell you Damian if we were competing for medals you might get gold for your floor routine, but here we compete for championship belts, and that sloppy ass gymnastics bull shit will get you drop kicked in mid air. Your timing sucks, your skills are weak, and your heart is quite frankly made of paper. I'm going to crumple that shit, and show you it's as bout as useful as the diploma you received from that washed up, scarred, no title winning sack of horse shit mentor you had in Trevor Blackwell.
You see it's real obvious to all where you developed your training even if you didn't pollute us with the smelly shit that leaves your mouth every second, it's quite clear that you are the product of the Blasphemous Blackwell Barn. You have all the same attributes, the big mouth always running away with itself and not a lot in your bag to back it up. You have gone the way of the Blackwell Brainiac by trying to build an army behind you so that when you run those loose lips there will be a few other people around to absorb the beating coming your direction. You have tried to make a wall of security just like that pussy Trevor did. And here we are once more running the same song as I see Sabur standing over your shoulder this time. A copy cat, carbon copy of the sad shit that tormented the APW and so many other feds before it, and now it's your turn to shine like the turd your mentor was."
I chuckle a bit at the pathetic actions, and played out bullshit that Damian is bringing to the table. I get my self together because I know me laughing at his stupidity isn't really great presentable material for television so I will reserve my amusement for later.
"You, just like Trevor, also must be a fan of the day time soap opera because the theatrics that you have cooked up are almost Emmy worthy you douche wad. I seriously can't believe you dug up some broad who just so happens to share half of my DNA, my newly found sister and think this is supposed to shock me. Better yet it was supposed to rock the very foundation beneath the JESUS's feet wasn't it Damian? Think again retard.
That was a stupid move that would simply sum you up as an honorary Blackwell, and a bonafied cock knocker. Listen up and listen real good your ass tickling idiot, before you cooked up this plan you might have wanted to investigate the man you where trying to rile up. You are looking at a rugged son of a bitch that super kicks his mother in the face for simple entertainment, a man that can't stand the sight of the woman who birthed him. This very same man is really supposed to get all sentimental, and drip like a leaky snatch because you brought some slut forward claiming she is my sister. That just proves my mother was a whore all along, and as for the family blood thing goes...FUCK HER. I don't know her from a homeless man under the bridge begging for change, and tugging on his snausage.
Now throw in the fact that she is in deed a SHE, and that makes the JESUS even more disgruntled, and filled with hatred. Sluts can eat a dick and die, oh thats right you didn't know that I am card carrying member of the Woman Hatting Association of America. That means God knocked the balls off the dumbs ones, and I haven't a use for any of them. You on the other hand like your mentor associate yourself with the constant drama, the insistent nagging, and the ever present distraction of dumb cunts. This time it is supposed to be different because she's MY sister, this little tooth pick looking slut is supposed to be my distraction. Look at you man, it's sad it's pathetic, and quite disturbing. I saw the two of you and I must say I was waiting for Chris Hansen to leap from the closet at any moment. You looked like a pedophile trying to seduce a little girl with candy, my little sister none the less. A sister I am supposed to give three flying fucks about...how sadly are you mistaken."
With that I pause briefly smirking toward the camera. I take a deep breath to fill these heavenly lungs with air as I continue on with my verbal assault on this simple little stooge that will get bonked come Rasstlemania.
"You know Damian this whole family drama really should have it's own time slot on the ABC Family channel, it shouldn't be taking place on Thursday nights in front of the APW faithful. Seeing as I don't give a donkey fuck about the fans it makes no difference to me. I don't need family, never have and never will. You on the other hand are taking up where Trevor left off. Stepping in his foot print perfectly. Apparently the APW needed family drama since the Blackwell bullshit left the building, apparently we needed the sad excuse of a stable being born once more, and apparently the APW needed all this from you. The sad part is no one is impressed, and most of all they are really just sick to their stomach over you recent horse shit, your weak attempts to produce anything entertaining.
These actions of yours, this cooked up drama is how I know your little panzi ass is frightened like no one else has ever been. It's amazing because if you put this much effort into actually being a wrestler inside the ring you might have stood a chance against the JESUS. Instead you poured so much time and energy into trying to rattle the unflappable Savior of wrestling. You tried these silly mind games which in the long run not only have shown the world how delusional you are, but tell a sad story that you my friend watch way too much day time television. Sum it all up you are a pussy, scared of a real man, scared of the JESUS.
So enough Days of Our Lives, enough General Hospital, enough Luke and Laura this is Action Packed Wrestling you little cock monkey, and we don't serve up the drama like TNT. So instead of waiting around for our Day Time Emmy, let us get right into the truths here, un cover some cold hard facts. Trevor Blackwell and the APW are like a bad relationship, a heated couple if you will. They thought it was going to work, but in the end Trevor was nothing but poison, bad news, and most off all a huge tool fresh from the academy. APW was way better off starting a life apart from Trevor and the entire Blackwell family.
You Damian Dimitri are like the love child produced by Trevor Blackwell and the APW. You are the constant reminder of the mistake this company once made. People look at you and see the proverbial father of who's image you are created. People see the scum of the Earth Trevor Blackwell, the cancer, the plague that he was. When they look upon you, the young prodigy, the seed if you will, they see that same plague, that disease of the Blackwell name holding on like a leech. You are just a small embryo brewing in the belly of this company, and at Mania I will force this abortion. Thats right Michael Lively will be the coat hanger to travel up the uterus of our beloved APW, and destroy this bad memory, this horrible love child created in the disgrace of a tormented relationship.
I will yank you and the afterbirth that you are trying to create with the New Breed right out of the womb, and toss you all in the trash. Pro-choice is my stance, and I'm willing to put in the work to show my dedication to the cause if you know what I mean."
I stop looking toward the camera letting the harshness of my words sink on to the ears that will soon hear my wrath. Damian knows at this very moment that he might have bitten off a little too much.
"I have come way too far, traveled the road of success for too long to let some snot nosed little brat who thinks because he trained under the dirty thumb nail of a trash can superstar, take what I have earned. I have gotten every title this company has put forth. I hold the most victories in the APW, and I will be the first man ever to preform the controversial in ring Abortion when I ruin you and everything you think you stand for at Rasstlemania. You are nothing, a disgrace, simple pawn being used by Trevor to carry on his shameful legacy. I would be sick to my stomach if I were you, yet you seem very proud to carry his torch. So in carrying his torch you will taste the simple, sweet and bitter agony of disappointment just like he did so many times before. You are going to carry on a legacy of a man who couldn't hack it in APW, couldn't win the big one, couldn't get the job done, and even when the title was presented to him on a silver platter he fell short...thanks to ME!!!
You are also carrying on the Legacy of a man who didn't hesitate to choose his greed for gold over his friends. You see I paid Trevor to take out Sabur with the master plan of him getting a shot at the strap, he just was so blinded the lust he didn't realize that I would be the man standing on the other side of the ring. Trevor is like a silly puppet just waiting to be played. You whisper in his ear that the room is on fire, before he even checks, the son of a bitch is leaping out the window head first. That silly asshole got played over and over again.
Now here YOU are a product of that very game standing before me, and guess what I see...Checkers! Way to go stupid ass, this is Chess, a grown mans game, where thought comes into to play, strategy rules, where trying to read your opponent and their moves is the key to success. The child like drama that you have pulled makes you feel as if you are sitting with the advantage. It shows me you haven't done your homework, and proves to me that you aren't ready for the JESUS. You have put all your eggs in the basket, hoping that is enough to get the job done. You are hoping that this little swerve of my sister will give you the much needed advantage you will need to overcome the JESUS when the strap is on the line. The problem is you pulled the eggs to soon, come Mania you will be left with nothing but a basket of rotten yokes.
I see you, I hear you acting as if I'm left with three black checkers while you are sitting all puffed up and proud with your six red Kings. This reality that I will introduce you to will show you first hand we don't play middle school games here son, and let you know that you have been plugging away at the wrong board this entire time. I will pick you apart, eat you up, and shit your remnants all over the floor for people to simply trample over as they move on with their lives. You are nothing to the JESUS, and once that bell rings you will surely know why I am the Hottest Shit Going! Why I am the only Grand Slam champion of APW, and most of all the last man to beat the sorry son of a bitch that taught you everything you know.
This isn't Karate Kid Damian Son, in the real world Cobra Kai will bury a Miagi any day of the week. So enough drama, enough make believe, snap that ugly ass back into reality and welcome what is coming your way courtesy of the JESUS, with open arms...a heavenly stream of piss to put out the small flame of excitement you have tried to spark up in APW. Around these parts I am King, you have proved to be just a pawn, at Rasstlemania this will be Checkmate, Bitch!!!"
With that I strike the I am JESUS pose for the camera. As I hold the pose that strikes fear into the hearts of men, and sickens the stomach of millions of fans I am interrupted by the opening of my locker room door. Chubs spins around pointing the camera in the direction of my mother. I drop the pose as I feel the warmth of anger overcome my entire body. She shuts the door behind her looking my direction. I step sideways which can only mean one thing. In split second as Chubs pans out to capture both me and my mother in the frame I lung forward lifting my leg in the air. My boot heading right for the chin of the woman who not only brought me into this world but has tossed my into a shit storm with her neverending unraveling of secrets. This time, this kick, is going to feel so good. This time when I blast the jawbone of my mother with the heal of my foot it will be as if I just received the happy ending of a Japanese rub down.
