Post by JD Storm on Mar 21, 2011 23:46:18 GMT -4
Scene opens poolside in a warm, sunny location. Several gorgeous women are swimming, most of which are in the skimpiest outfits possible. Several more are tanning themselves at various parts of the poolside area. A modest group of servants is making sure to cater to the various guests. Food and drinks are handed out to those who want it. Tanning lotion is rubbed on those who request it. Fresh towels given to those getting out of the pool. At the north side of the pool area, near a building used for pool functions, is a DJ. The DJ is playing a variety of music from the late 90’s to current hits.
Bobby Bodacious comes out of the far side of the pool. One of the many servants quickly hands him a large towel, so he can dry himself off with. Bodacious takes his time to dry off before he heads off to a fancy pool chair. Bobby signals another servant, who brings over a tray full of champagne. Bobby takes a glass, enjoys some of it, as the servant takes off.
“Superstar” Bobby Bodacious
My life is grand, isn’t it? The best possible home. Olympic-sized swimming pool. Best servants that money can buy. Eating in the classiest restaurants whenever the hell I please. Never have to lift a finger to do any physical work. I don’t have so much as a hangnail. Every hair is in place. No matter what happens to me, everything always has a way of working itself out perfectly. Business dealings, golf outings, even matches.
Just a couple weeks back, I had a match against one of IWC’s many thugs named Jason Kash. The worthless bum had managed to earn himself a spot in the APW vs. IWC War Games match, at my expense. Pricks like himself seemed to get away with being worthless bums, beating up old-timers, stealing money, taking whatever they want without having to work for anything they get. Someone like myself, however, has to pay huge taxes so lazy asses like that can continue to collect their welfare checks, food stamps, housing subsidies and other handouts that Uncle Sam is willing to hand out.
Then, about a week ago, I was looking at the card for APW’s upcoming Rasslemania show. To no real surprise of my own, I see myself with yet another title opportunity coming my way. All I have to do to gain that opportunity is beat several other people in a battle royal. Shouldn’t be too hard to pull off. How hard can it be? The talent in the match are hardly in my league. They lack the talent, the good looks, the breeding. I come from only the best genetics. I’m the only true blueblood in APW or IWC. Doesn’t matter what Pence Weatherlight or anyone else in either promotion says. I am the one true blueblood. I come from a long line of old money. My trust fund could buy several third world nations.
Every single person facing me in this battle royal is equal to some kind of third world nation. Only something horribly evil, or amazingly awesome, will get the fans behind them. If it wasn’t for one of these things happening, nobody would know that they’re even alive.
Chriss Cassidy, for example…….wait, I recognize that name from somewhere. Sounds familiar. I used to beat up a Chriss Cassidy when I worked for a promotion up in Pennsylvania. Used to be a know nothing punk. Won a couple championships out of pure luck. Nothing special about you except maybe the classes you were during your school years.
Alexandra Callaway? Rumor has it that you’re involved with a guy named “Mean Mark”. Heard the dude thinks he’s some sort of undead zombie biker MMA badass…..or something to that extent. Picks a lot of red boogers, I think. Alex, I’ll do you a favor. Once I eliminate you from the battle royal, ruining your chance at challenging for championship, I’ll give you a nice, safe job. I could use a maid. The requirements wouldn’t be much. Just dress up in the skimpy outfit that I provide you and do all the menial tasks that I command you to do.
El Intimidator? Is this name for real? Damn. Why not go all the way with the gimmick? Maybe call yourself El Matador? Wait….I think that one is trademarked. Maybe El Guapo would be better. Wait….that one might be trademarked, as well. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a better gimmick, something that might actually put a few asses in the seats.
Fire Dragon? There’s going to be one hell of a fire, all of which is going to come out of your ass. Like the Knights of the Round Table, I’m making sure to slay this dragon like it were a teeny little gecko. Fire breathing dragons are nothing more then fiction and over-active imaginations. People would come across dinosaur bones and assume that some of them came from fictitious creatures. You, you’re career & your attempts at a title shot are just that…..FICTICIOUS!
Khaos? Rip McGrip? Seriously? You two sound like you’re straight out of a wrestling camp run by an ultimate nut job in parts unknown. Guys, find something better to do. Anything would do. I’m pretty sure rodeos still need clowns. Khaos….sounds like a cheesy name you might see in a B-rated comic book. Rip McGrip, on the other hand, is a name you’d hear from some pathetic excuse for a child’s cartoon in the 60’s. Suppose it’s better then using a name like H.R. Pufnstuf.
I could go on an on, but I feel as though continuing this game is a waste of my time. I need to save my energy for winning the battle royal. Only thing that matters is getting that title shot against Chris Chambers. We all know he’s only held onto his championship because I haven’t challenged you, yet. You’ve been able to skate by, so far. Won’t be able to much longer. You’re no superstar, Chambers. You barely qualify as a wrestler.
At Rasslemania, the Superstar will see his full glory reached. The biggest show of the year will be headlined by only the greatest superstar that APW or IWC has ever seen. Love it or hate it, everyone will soon be calling me “Champ”.
A servant brings Bodacious a fresh glass of champagne as a couple of beautiful women come to keep him company. Scene fades out.
Bobby Bodacious comes out of the far side of the pool. One of the many servants quickly hands him a large towel, so he can dry himself off with. Bodacious takes his time to dry off before he heads off to a fancy pool chair. Bobby signals another servant, who brings over a tray full of champagne. Bobby takes a glass, enjoys some of it, as the servant takes off.
“Superstar” Bobby Bodacious
My life is grand, isn’t it? The best possible home. Olympic-sized swimming pool. Best servants that money can buy. Eating in the classiest restaurants whenever the hell I please. Never have to lift a finger to do any physical work. I don’t have so much as a hangnail. Every hair is in place. No matter what happens to me, everything always has a way of working itself out perfectly. Business dealings, golf outings, even matches.
Just a couple weeks back, I had a match against one of IWC’s many thugs named Jason Kash. The worthless bum had managed to earn himself a spot in the APW vs. IWC War Games match, at my expense. Pricks like himself seemed to get away with being worthless bums, beating up old-timers, stealing money, taking whatever they want without having to work for anything they get. Someone like myself, however, has to pay huge taxes so lazy asses like that can continue to collect their welfare checks, food stamps, housing subsidies and other handouts that Uncle Sam is willing to hand out.
Then, about a week ago, I was looking at the card for APW’s upcoming Rasslemania show. To no real surprise of my own, I see myself with yet another title opportunity coming my way. All I have to do to gain that opportunity is beat several other people in a battle royal. Shouldn’t be too hard to pull off. How hard can it be? The talent in the match are hardly in my league. They lack the talent, the good looks, the breeding. I come from only the best genetics. I’m the only true blueblood in APW or IWC. Doesn’t matter what Pence Weatherlight or anyone else in either promotion says. I am the one true blueblood. I come from a long line of old money. My trust fund could buy several third world nations.
Every single person facing me in this battle royal is equal to some kind of third world nation. Only something horribly evil, or amazingly awesome, will get the fans behind them. If it wasn’t for one of these things happening, nobody would know that they’re even alive.
Chriss Cassidy, for example…….wait, I recognize that name from somewhere. Sounds familiar. I used to beat up a Chriss Cassidy when I worked for a promotion up in Pennsylvania. Used to be a know nothing punk. Won a couple championships out of pure luck. Nothing special about you except maybe the classes you were during your school years.
Alexandra Callaway? Rumor has it that you’re involved with a guy named “Mean Mark”. Heard the dude thinks he’s some sort of undead zombie biker MMA badass…..or something to that extent. Picks a lot of red boogers, I think. Alex, I’ll do you a favor. Once I eliminate you from the battle royal, ruining your chance at challenging for championship, I’ll give you a nice, safe job. I could use a maid. The requirements wouldn’t be much. Just dress up in the skimpy outfit that I provide you and do all the menial tasks that I command you to do.
El Intimidator? Is this name for real? Damn. Why not go all the way with the gimmick? Maybe call yourself El Matador? Wait….I think that one is trademarked. Maybe El Guapo would be better. Wait….that one might be trademarked, as well. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a better gimmick, something that might actually put a few asses in the seats.
Fire Dragon? There’s going to be one hell of a fire, all of which is going to come out of your ass. Like the Knights of the Round Table, I’m making sure to slay this dragon like it were a teeny little gecko. Fire breathing dragons are nothing more then fiction and over-active imaginations. People would come across dinosaur bones and assume that some of them came from fictitious creatures. You, you’re career & your attempts at a title shot are just that…..FICTICIOUS!
Khaos? Rip McGrip? Seriously? You two sound like you’re straight out of a wrestling camp run by an ultimate nut job in parts unknown. Guys, find something better to do. Anything would do. I’m pretty sure rodeos still need clowns. Khaos….sounds like a cheesy name you might see in a B-rated comic book. Rip McGrip, on the other hand, is a name you’d hear from some pathetic excuse for a child’s cartoon in the 60’s. Suppose it’s better then using a name like H.R. Pufnstuf.
I could go on an on, but I feel as though continuing this game is a waste of my time. I need to save my energy for winning the battle royal. Only thing that matters is getting that title shot against Chris Chambers. We all know he’s only held onto his championship because I haven’t challenged you, yet. You’ve been able to skate by, so far. Won’t be able to much longer. You’re no superstar, Chambers. You barely qualify as a wrestler.
At Rasslemania, the Superstar will see his full glory reached. The biggest show of the year will be headlined by only the greatest superstar that APW or IWC has ever seen. Love it or hate it, everyone will soon be calling me “Champ”.
A servant brings Bodacious a fresh glass of champagne as a couple of beautiful women come to keep him company. Scene fades out.
