Post by C.J. Gates on Jan 24, 2012 20:37:05 GMT -4
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what. The. Fuck!"
The scene opens up in a room with four mirrors and the reflection in all of them is shouting. In the middle of the room sits Rico Casteel, the man casting the reflections. He is sitting in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head slowly. None of the reflections are doing the same, all of them are doing something different. The one directly in front of Rico looks the most angry, his face red.
"The two of you win, you destroy those Anti-Society pieces of garbage, and you get thrown into this...this...match?"
"At least it's a step in the right direction toward domination."
"You think that? You really think that?"
Rico turns his head to the right, to see the reflection smiling wide.
"You're being used as pawns. Reginald is expecting you to fail!"
"You see? At least he speaks sense."
"But the process is simple. We simply have to destroy these two Grants and earn our way to the title match we deserve. It's not like Morrison and I have been losing, we've been proving our worth."
"And you get rewarded with the scrubs."
Rico turns to the left to see the reflection, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Rico.
"How can you not see it? How can you be so calm?"
"I see it. I just...I'm tired of having to state it. I'm tired of having to yell from the rooftops at how unfairly I have been treated since losing the title. Hell, since I stepped into the Asylum. I made my presence felt when I drove that psychotic son of a bitch into those steel steps on my debut, I showed that I could be as heartless as anyone when I beat that bitch with a lead pipe, and I've shown that I can not only handle hanging with the best, but I can also cause the best to run at the very thought of facing me."
"Are you scared?"
Rico stands up and turns to face the reflection behind him, anger flashing in his eyes.
"How dare you call me scared!"
"I dare, because that's what it seems. You're afraid of truly rebelling because you're afraid of what it might mean. You could lose your job!"
"They wouldn't fire me. They can't fire me. I'm one of the few left that can provide an actual challenge to some of the pukes that call themselves World champions."
"You sure about that?"
Rico spins back to face the first reflection.
"Am I sure that I am more of a competitor than Jason Kash? Yes. Than Nathaniel Havok? Hell yes. Better than C.J. Gates, Johnny Rebel, Kurt Noble, Level One, Terry Marvin? Yes, yes, one thousand more to come. I am more determined and more dangerous then any of those two combined."
"Tough talk. Remember what happened to the last guy who thought he was better than Level One?"
"At least he's talking, right?"
"Not exactly ideal, really. I still say he's afraid."
"I. Am. Not. Afraid."
"Oh yeah? You've done nothing to prove that."
"You've been soft the past few months. You've done nothing but play games and hang out with a mentally unstable piece of--"
The reflection is cut off as Rico picks up his chair and hurls it into the mirror shattering it into pieces, crashing to the floor.
"Look at this guy."
"There's more of that to come to the rest of you if you don't shut the fuck up."
"Sounds like he's cracked. A screw loose or something in the old melon."
Rico walks over and picks up the chair, turning to the reflection.
"You want some of this? I swear to God, I have no issue breaking more of you!"
"So this is what you do gearing up toward a big Pay-Per-View, huh, son?"
Rico stops in his tracks, the chair raised in the air, turning his head to spot Colonel Frederick de LaFontaine the third standing in the now open doorway.
"What the hell do you want, old man? I thought I told you to fuck off."
"Figured, I say, figured I'd check in on you, see how you were doin' and everything. Seems like you've lost a few steps without me, don't you think, boy?"
"Haven't lost a damn thing."
"Right. You've just lost your title, your mind, your common sense."
"Watch what you're saying old man."
The Colonel walks into the room, smiling.
"Or what? You're going to throw that chair at me?"
Rico drops the chair and lowers his head. The Colonel takes another step toward Rico.
"That's what I thought. Now, I say, now, will you listen to me? We got to get your head back on straight."
Right as the Colonel finishes his sentence, Rico lunges forward grabbing him by the collar of his mustard colored suit and lifts him into the air, turning slightly and tossing the Colonel back first into one of the remaining mirrors. The glass shatters as the Colonel hits the wall hard and crumbles to the floor, his white hair beginning to get covered with blood from a cut on the back of his head.
"I told you before, I don't need your shit. I'm doing fine on my own. I'm doing fine with my own way of doing things."
"About time! I've been waiting for you to teach that geriatric piece of shit a lesson!"
Rico looks at the reflection, rage coursing through his eyes. He stares at the reflection, who simply stares back at Rico, unmoving. After a few moments, Rico shakes his head and storms out of the room. As the door is slammed shut, in the far mirror one of the other reflections steps into view.
"Fucker broke my mirror!"
"At least you got out of the way. Not like the other one."
The new reflection nods as the scene fades out to black.
"People talk about me being big. They talk about me having muscles and they talk about me possibly having a screw loose. But the one thing they don't say about me, is how violent I can be. How dangerous I can become at the slightest moment.
"Some might call it big talk, but I just call it the truth. Some might say that I'm leaving in some sort of dream, living some sort of fucked up fairy tale, but I consider it a rite of passage. After all, there aren't many people who can claim to have chased so many people out of the Asylum. There aren't many who can say that they forced so many hopeless pieces of shit to flee the scene before they actually managed to scoop up their own brains.
"Don't believe me?
"I attacked Crimson Ghost and he was never heard from again. Kristina Blackwell, the so-called Hardcore Princess, was sent packing after she failed to topple me for the Suicidal title at Massacre on Thirty-Fourth Street. Delilah? No one has seen her since I smashed her face in with a lead pipe and made sure that every bone in her body was either broken or bruised. Nate Bishop became a casualty because he couldn't understand that I was way out of his league. That I was in a whole different ballpark. Isamu Suzuki was never the same after he and I had our battle, which eventually caused him to leave and attempt a pitiful comeback at Survive and Conquer.
"And of course, everyone remembers how I scared James Chambers our of the Asylum. How everyone thought he was the top dawg, and I proved that wrong when he tucked his tail between his legs and disappeared to a land where no one has heard from him. Branden Harvey? The man who claimed dementia? I beat that out of him and left him as easy pickings until he was ready to call an end to his pathetic excuse of a career. Chris Defoe? We all saw the old man pop a hip in the opening seconds of the World Heavyweight title match.
"I could go on and on, really.
"Add everyone that I demolished in that battle royal at Rasslemania. El Imitador, Fire Dragon, James Ward, Ebon, Jason Royce, Allison Detorre, Grace Kerr...Names of nobodies that were disposed of at my hand. That had their careers put to a halt before they could live in anymore lies.
"So what's the point of all of this? What's the point of me listing off the pieces of shit that I have not only beaten and destroyed, but that I have also sent packing from the Asylum and APW as a whole. Well, the point is that I hope the two nobodies that Morrison and I are being forced to fight against at Survive and Conquer realize just what they are getting themselves into. They might see it as a chance to stake their claim at the tag team titles, but what they don't see, is that those tag team titles are already property of the Martyrs of Madness.
"We've been screwed out of everything else. The APW World title. A guaranteed APW World title shot. A rematch for the APW Suicidal title. Every opportunity we had to be successful, Reginald has denied us, stolen it from us and watched as we tread water in obscurity. Watched as we complain, bitch and moan. Watched from his panic room as the Martyrs not only realize what is going on, but as we grow more and more angry because of it. And that fucker thinks that he is going to get the better of us because of it?
"He's wrong on that one. Just like those names I mentioned, I will make sure that he is never the same man. I will drive that motherfucker out of MY Asylum if it's the last thing I do.
"And the Grant's are just the next hurdles for us to overcome.
"The next dummies for us to destroy.
"The next pieces of trash for us to dispose of.
"Choose whatever metaphor you want, it's all logical in this scenario. The basic statement is that you two are going to try and make something of yourselves here, but Morrison and I are going to stop it before it ever gets started. We are going to put an end to it before you can even take a breath of success. You want to win matches and titles around here? You're going to have to do it on someone else's time, because it's not happening on ours.
"We're here to win. We're here to destroy. We're here to maim, to punish, and to utterly eliminate everything that steps in our way. And this week, that's the two of you. There's no way around it, the two of you are simply going to be the next examples, the next samples of what the Martyrs of Madness can actually do when given the opportunity.
"After all, the two of you pose no threat to us in the slightest.
"How could you?
"Because you're married? Please, that doesn't mean that you two are in sync in the ring. That doesn't mean that the two of you can't be beat. There's bound to be arguments, bound to be things that you don't agree on. While me and Mike, we are one and the same. Our minds have the same goals. Our hearts have the same goals. Our desires are the same. Our ways of life. We are essentially the same person split into two.
"And we will prove that to you. We will show the two of you that we are more than just what everyone keeps telling us we are. We are more than just a couple of nut jobs let loose. More then some psychos that no one has had the nerve to lock up in a padded cell somewhere.
"Need proof? Just look at what we did to Cid Phoenix and his running buddy Dan. Just look at how Mike and I made them look like total trash. And they ran their mouths big time. They talked a tough game and then when push came to shove, they fucked it up. They lost the match because they were too sure that they could beat the two men that they thought were so fucking mental, that we didn't even stand a chance.
"Are the two of you going to follow suit?
"Or are you going to learn your fucking lessons and realize that regardless of how much the two of you bust ass, the Martyrs will still come out on top. Madness will still come out on top. It's already written in the cards that we are going to win those belts, it's just a matter of time before Reginald realizes it to and hands them to us, whether it be on a silver platter or in the form of prey when we get our hands on the Studmuffins or the unnamed duo of Sader and Peace.
"But that is for the future, because the present, is a pair of Grants that need a reality lesson. A pair of miscreants that need to learn their place in the federation. They might not understand it now, but they eventually will. Or at least, for their sake, they should hope that they do. Because Mike and I, we don't mince our words with a halfhearted effort inside of the ring. We give it one hundred percent two hundred percent of the time. We don't ever see the possibility for mercy. You step into the ring with us and you must prepare for two things.
"Defeat.
"And the possibility that you will not be walking out of that ring under your own power. The probability that you were have scars that will forever remind you of the time you tried to test fate. Think I'm kidding? Ask around. This isn't some sort of pathetic parlor trick to try and scare the two of you. I'm not jus throwing out these words to make you shake in your boots. Because I back it up one hundred percent.
"I am as dangerous a man that you will ever meet inside of the ring.
"I am as unpredictable a man as any that you will face off against in APW.
"And I will most definitely make those aspirations of being intergender tag team champions null and void. We will both make sure that the two of you pack your bags and head back to Japan where you will prove more usefl to society then you will here.
"After all, you're taking advice from Kid Dynamo whose best ability is talking a big game. Nothing more. When push comes to shove, he gets beaten like the punk that he is. He's nowhere near our level of danger. Our level of destruction.
"And neither are the Grants.
"But you'll realize that soon enough.
"Welcome to the Madness."
The scene opens up in a room with four mirrors and the reflection in all of them is shouting. In the middle of the room sits Rico Casteel, the man casting the reflections. He is sitting in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head slowly. None of the reflections are doing the same, all of them are doing something different. The one directly in front of Rico looks the most angry, his face red.
"The two of you win, you destroy those Anti-Society pieces of garbage, and you get thrown into this...this...match?"
"At least it's a step in the right direction toward domination."
"You think that? You really think that?"
Rico turns his head to the right, to see the reflection smiling wide.
"You're being used as pawns. Reginald is expecting you to fail!"
"You see? At least he speaks sense."
"But the process is simple. We simply have to destroy these two Grants and earn our way to the title match we deserve. It's not like Morrison and I have been losing, we've been proving our worth."
"And you get rewarded with the scrubs."
Rico turns to the left to see the reflection, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Rico.
"How can you not see it? How can you be so calm?"
"I see it. I just...I'm tired of having to state it. I'm tired of having to yell from the rooftops at how unfairly I have been treated since losing the title. Hell, since I stepped into the Asylum. I made my presence felt when I drove that psychotic son of a bitch into those steel steps on my debut, I showed that I could be as heartless as anyone when I beat that bitch with a lead pipe, and I've shown that I can not only handle hanging with the best, but I can also cause the best to run at the very thought of facing me."
"Are you scared?"
Rico stands up and turns to face the reflection behind him, anger flashing in his eyes.
"How dare you call me scared!"
"I dare, because that's what it seems. You're afraid of truly rebelling because you're afraid of what it might mean. You could lose your job!"
"They wouldn't fire me. They can't fire me. I'm one of the few left that can provide an actual challenge to some of the pukes that call themselves World champions."
"You sure about that?"
Rico spins back to face the first reflection.
"Am I sure that I am more of a competitor than Jason Kash? Yes. Than Nathaniel Havok? Hell yes. Better than C.J. Gates, Johnny Rebel, Kurt Noble, Level One, Terry Marvin? Yes, yes, one thousand more to come. I am more determined and more dangerous then any of those two combined."
"Tough talk. Remember what happened to the last guy who thought he was better than Level One?"
"At least he's talking, right?"
"Not exactly ideal, really. I still say he's afraid."
"I. Am. Not. Afraid."
"Oh yeah? You've done nothing to prove that."
"You've been soft the past few months. You've done nothing but play games and hang out with a mentally unstable piece of--"
The reflection is cut off as Rico picks up his chair and hurls it into the mirror shattering it into pieces, crashing to the floor.
"Look at this guy."
"There's more of that to come to the rest of you if you don't shut the fuck up."
"Sounds like he's cracked. A screw loose or something in the old melon."
Rico walks over and picks up the chair, turning to the reflection.
"You want some of this? I swear to God, I have no issue breaking more of you!"
"So this is what you do gearing up toward a big Pay-Per-View, huh, son?"
Rico stops in his tracks, the chair raised in the air, turning his head to spot Colonel Frederick de LaFontaine the third standing in the now open doorway.
"What the hell do you want, old man? I thought I told you to fuck off."
"Figured, I say, figured I'd check in on you, see how you were doin' and everything. Seems like you've lost a few steps without me, don't you think, boy?"
"Haven't lost a damn thing."
"Right. You've just lost your title, your mind, your common sense."
"Watch what you're saying old man."
The Colonel walks into the room, smiling.
"Or what? You're going to throw that chair at me?"
Rico drops the chair and lowers his head. The Colonel takes another step toward Rico.
"That's what I thought. Now, I say, now, will you listen to me? We got to get your head back on straight."
Right as the Colonel finishes his sentence, Rico lunges forward grabbing him by the collar of his mustard colored suit and lifts him into the air, turning slightly and tossing the Colonel back first into one of the remaining mirrors. The glass shatters as the Colonel hits the wall hard and crumbles to the floor, his white hair beginning to get covered with blood from a cut on the back of his head.
"I told you before, I don't need your shit. I'm doing fine on my own. I'm doing fine with my own way of doing things."
"About time! I've been waiting for you to teach that geriatric piece of shit a lesson!"
Rico looks at the reflection, rage coursing through his eyes. He stares at the reflection, who simply stares back at Rico, unmoving. After a few moments, Rico shakes his head and storms out of the room. As the door is slammed shut, in the far mirror one of the other reflections steps into view.
"Fucker broke my mirror!"
"At least you got out of the way. Not like the other one."
The new reflection nods as the scene fades out to black.
"People talk about me being big. They talk about me having muscles and they talk about me possibly having a screw loose. But the one thing they don't say about me, is how violent I can be. How dangerous I can become at the slightest moment.
"Some might call it big talk, but I just call it the truth. Some might say that I'm leaving in some sort of dream, living some sort of fucked up fairy tale, but I consider it a rite of passage. After all, there aren't many people who can claim to have chased so many people out of the Asylum. There aren't many who can say that they forced so many hopeless pieces of shit to flee the scene before they actually managed to scoop up their own brains.
"Don't believe me?
"I attacked Crimson Ghost and he was never heard from again. Kristina Blackwell, the so-called Hardcore Princess, was sent packing after she failed to topple me for the Suicidal title at Massacre on Thirty-Fourth Street. Delilah? No one has seen her since I smashed her face in with a lead pipe and made sure that every bone in her body was either broken or bruised. Nate Bishop became a casualty because he couldn't understand that I was way out of his league. That I was in a whole different ballpark. Isamu Suzuki was never the same after he and I had our battle, which eventually caused him to leave and attempt a pitiful comeback at Survive and Conquer.
"And of course, everyone remembers how I scared James Chambers our of the Asylum. How everyone thought he was the top dawg, and I proved that wrong when he tucked his tail between his legs and disappeared to a land where no one has heard from him. Branden Harvey? The man who claimed dementia? I beat that out of him and left him as easy pickings until he was ready to call an end to his pathetic excuse of a career. Chris Defoe? We all saw the old man pop a hip in the opening seconds of the World Heavyweight title match.
"I could go on and on, really.
"Add everyone that I demolished in that battle royal at Rasslemania. El Imitador, Fire Dragon, James Ward, Ebon, Jason Royce, Allison Detorre, Grace Kerr...Names of nobodies that were disposed of at my hand. That had their careers put to a halt before they could live in anymore lies.
"So what's the point of all of this? What's the point of me listing off the pieces of shit that I have not only beaten and destroyed, but that I have also sent packing from the Asylum and APW as a whole. Well, the point is that I hope the two nobodies that Morrison and I are being forced to fight against at Survive and Conquer realize just what they are getting themselves into. They might see it as a chance to stake their claim at the tag team titles, but what they don't see, is that those tag team titles are already property of the Martyrs of Madness.
"We've been screwed out of everything else. The APW World title. A guaranteed APW World title shot. A rematch for the APW Suicidal title. Every opportunity we had to be successful, Reginald has denied us, stolen it from us and watched as we tread water in obscurity. Watched as we complain, bitch and moan. Watched from his panic room as the Martyrs not only realize what is going on, but as we grow more and more angry because of it. And that fucker thinks that he is going to get the better of us because of it?
"He's wrong on that one. Just like those names I mentioned, I will make sure that he is never the same man. I will drive that motherfucker out of MY Asylum if it's the last thing I do.
"And the Grant's are just the next hurdles for us to overcome.
"The next dummies for us to destroy.
"The next pieces of trash for us to dispose of.
"Choose whatever metaphor you want, it's all logical in this scenario. The basic statement is that you two are going to try and make something of yourselves here, but Morrison and I are going to stop it before it ever gets started. We are going to put an end to it before you can even take a breath of success. You want to win matches and titles around here? You're going to have to do it on someone else's time, because it's not happening on ours.
"We're here to win. We're here to destroy. We're here to maim, to punish, and to utterly eliminate everything that steps in our way. And this week, that's the two of you. There's no way around it, the two of you are simply going to be the next examples, the next samples of what the Martyrs of Madness can actually do when given the opportunity.
"After all, the two of you pose no threat to us in the slightest.
"How could you?
"Because you're married? Please, that doesn't mean that you two are in sync in the ring. That doesn't mean that the two of you can't be beat. There's bound to be arguments, bound to be things that you don't agree on. While me and Mike, we are one and the same. Our minds have the same goals. Our hearts have the same goals. Our desires are the same. Our ways of life. We are essentially the same person split into two.
"And we will prove that to you. We will show the two of you that we are more than just what everyone keeps telling us we are. We are more than just a couple of nut jobs let loose. More then some psychos that no one has had the nerve to lock up in a padded cell somewhere.
"Need proof? Just look at what we did to Cid Phoenix and his running buddy Dan. Just look at how Mike and I made them look like total trash. And they ran their mouths big time. They talked a tough game and then when push came to shove, they fucked it up. They lost the match because they were too sure that they could beat the two men that they thought were so fucking mental, that we didn't even stand a chance.
"Are the two of you going to follow suit?
"Or are you going to learn your fucking lessons and realize that regardless of how much the two of you bust ass, the Martyrs will still come out on top. Madness will still come out on top. It's already written in the cards that we are going to win those belts, it's just a matter of time before Reginald realizes it to and hands them to us, whether it be on a silver platter or in the form of prey when we get our hands on the Studmuffins or the unnamed duo of Sader and Peace.
"But that is for the future, because the present, is a pair of Grants that need a reality lesson. A pair of miscreants that need to learn their place in the federation. They might not understand it now, but they eventually will. Or at least, for their sake, they should hope that they do. Because Mike and I, we don't mince our words with a halfhearted effort inside of the ring. We give it one hundred percent two hundred percent of the time. We don't ever see the possibility for mercy. You step into the ring with us and you must prepare for two things.
"Defeat.
"And the possibility that you will not be walking out of that ring under your own power. The probability that you were have scars that will forever remind you of the time you tried to test fate. Think I'm kidding? Ask around. This isn't some sort of pathetic parlor trick to try and scare the two of you. I'm not jus throwing out these words to make you shake in your boots. Because I back it up one hundred percent.
"I am as dangerous a man that you will ever meet inside of the ring.
"I am as unpredictable a man as any that you will face off against in APW.
"And I will most definitely make those aspirations of being intergender tag team champions null and void. We will both make sure that the two of you pack your bags and head back to Japan where you will prove more usefl to society then you will here.
"After all, you're taking advice from Kid Dynamo whose best ability is talking a big game. Nothing more. When push comes to shove, he gets beaten like the punk that he is. He's nowhere near our level of danger. Our level of destruction.
"And neither are the Grants.
"But you'll realize that soon enough.
"Welcome to the Madness."
