Post by The Plague on Nov 13, 2005 0:14:20 GMT -5
His name? The Plague. His occupation? NAPW World Champion. He's on vacation.
Sweetcheeks, here's what I want. Shot. After shot. After shot. Line 'em up, cheetah. Here's a little something for your trouble. Thanks.
Like I said, it's The Plague. He's sitting at a quiet, secluded table at The Druid alehouse. The southside one, not the northside. It's a great place, rich dark wood, perhaps as irish of a feel as anybody's likely to get in Edmonton.
The Plague is casually dressed: designer blue jeans, black boots, and a fitted black t-shirt that reads "STYLIN' KYLE IS MY FAVORITE WRESTLER" in bold white writing on the front. His powerful frame clearly makes clothes shopping less-than-easy, in the current fashion climate of super-small-shirts and guys-wearing-girl-pants. He's not really attractive, but he's not ugly either. Truth be told: He looks like a professional wrestler outside the ring. Right now, he's looking directly into the camera. Smirking.
One letter, said real loud. The current NAPW Champion. D! I know you're watching, kid, and I know you're fuming. I could come on television right now and make some crack about how you were "shaking in your boots with FEAR" after I took that grease-soaked piece of garbage Marco's calls food and stuck it where it belonged. Hey, it wouldn't be beneath me, not by a long shot. Reality is, though, that I've got respect for you. At least, for what you can do in the ring. And I'll give you this: You weren't shaking with cowardice, no. You were pissed off. And I bet you really wanted to kick my ass. Well d!... Hold on a second, slacker. Taking care of business.
The waitress, or politically correct "server," returns with a tray of Gibson's Finest Whiskey. Briskly, she removes them from the tray and lines them up in front of The Plague. Plague grins at her and then watches her leave... with a grunt of approval, he returns his attention to the camera, resting casually back in his chair. Or at least, appearing to look casual.
Now D!, we've sure seen our share of drinking from NAPW wrestlers in the past few weeks? We've got The Calgary Connection somehow trying to contend for the NAPW Tag Titles despite being so soused on their cute little "Moe Green Specials" that MY FAVORITE WRESTLER STYLIN' KYLE could beat the both of them. With duct tape over his eyes. And his hands duct taped behind him. Hell, The Hatchet could have a spear even. Wink. The Decapitators really ought to consider AA. And of course, there's you D!. Drunk, on the floor, barely able to stand, just a day after being crowned the NAPW Champion. Let's think about it for a minute, huh?
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
The NAPW Champion. Hammered worse than Chris Jericho's credibility at the hands of Triple H. Representing not only the NAPW, but the UWP. Representing Edmonton. Representing...professional wrestling.
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
Kid, you said it yourself when we started our little jaunt down Whyte Ave last night. "I'm D!, NAPW champion, and people inform me it's a big deal." And that's it. That's all it took, you know? All it took for me to realize that you are the last person in the entire city of Edmonton --- no, the Province of Alberta --- no, the entire freaking world --- that should be representing the NAPW. Because you don't even realize just what it is that you wear around your waist. Hell, you even holding the championship has devalued it to the point that no-name scrubs like The Immortal and "Bad Boy" Joey Malone think they can take shots at it. Hey, you pointed it out yourself: "How come Plague never dealt with this?"
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
And like I said before, it's because of one reason: When The Plague walked around wearing that twenty pounds of gold, people FEARED, they RESPECTED, and they ENVIED the NAPW Champion! You don't have that, D!. Why the hell are you even in this? Oh sure, supposedly you love wrestling and you finally got off your couch, hit the gym and took some wrestling lessons in some scam artists backyard, then took a few kung-fu lessons for the hell of it. It's a great "Behind The Music" story. But I look at how you treat the belt and I wonder how the HELL I could have ever lost to a geek like you?
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
Kid...you got lucky.
SHOT. Glass brought down LOUDLY on the table.
D!...kid. You don't deserve that title. You beat me, one-two-three, and you'll always have that. Nobody can ever take that away from you. You won the title...but you don't deserve the title. Y'see kid, your future is like this: you're the Chris Jericho of the NAPW. You're going to be the first. He was the first undisputed champion of the WWF. You're the first man to beat The Plague for the title. But you know what? Sure, it's in the record books, and our friend Mr. Irvine can look in the mirror every morning and tell himself "I was the first"... but you know what? Nobody gives a DAMN. It's just a lame duck title run, a piece of trivia that makes people sit back and go "What? That short Canadian blonde was the champion of ANYTHING higher than the mid-card?"
SHOT. Glass down LOUDLY on the table.
It's gonna be the same, D! When the people of Edmonton look at the championship history of the NAPW they're going to see this strange little note that says "D! defeated The Plague for the title in November 2005!" And they're going to double-take, wondering how they could POSSIBLY have read it correctly! You're that guy, D! You're the footnote! Because listen up, you little punk: You got LUCKY. You've been runnin' your mouth off since day one, and last night somebody finally ran you over! Monday night! D! No barrage in the WORLD is going to save the rest of you from the worst ass-kicking of your life!
SHOT. Glass brought down LOUDLY on the table. And The Plague stands UP, on fire, angry, heated, passionate, smirking.
D! Bring all you've got! The people think we left it all in the ring one week ago, then they ain't seen NOTHING yet! Because I'm restocked, I'm restored, I've got something more in me that wasn't there before! D! Bring your barrage! Because I guarantee you, you son of a bitch, that I'm going to take SHOT---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
After SHOT ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
AFTER SHOT ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
And then when you've given it all, you're going to find out that THE PLAGUE can't be STOPPED, not by you, not by any man! And when the night is said and done, D!, the people are going to look at you, scored by THE BLACK DEATH, and they're going to know you by your REAL NAME, punk! It's real easy! ONE WORD! SAID REALLLLLL LOUD ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN. The sudden silence as The Plague smirks vindictively into the camera is shocking. Then, it breaks.
LOSER.
And with that, none the worse for wear despite countless shots of rye whiskey, The Plague grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair, swings it on, and walks out of the scene. Black.
Sweetcheeks, here's what I want. Shot. After shot. After shot. Line 'em up, cheetah. Here's a little something for your trouble. Thanks.
Like I said, it's The Plague. He's sitting at a quiet, secluded table at The Druid alehouse. The southside one, not the northside. It's a great place, rich dark wood, perhaps as irish of a feel as anybody's likely to get in Edmonton.
The Plague is casually dressed: designer blue jeans, black boots, and a fitted black t-shirt that reads "STYLIN' KYLE IS MY FAVORITE WRESTLER" in bold white writing on the front. His powerful frame clearly makes clothes shopping less-than-easy, in the current fashion climate of super-small-shirts and guys-wearing-girl-pants. He's not really attractive, but he's not ugly either. Truth be told: He looks like a professional wrestler outside the ring. Right now, he's looking directly into the camera. Smirking.
One letter, said real loud. The current NAPW Champion. D! I know you're watching, kid, and I know you're fuming. I could come on television right now and make some crack about how you were "shaking in your boots with FEAR" after I took that grease-soaked piece of garbage Marco's calls food and stuck it where it belonged. Hey, it wouldn't be beneath me, not by a long shot. Reality is, though, that I've got respect for you. At least, for what you can do in the ring. And I'll give you this: You weren't shaking with cowardice, no. You were pissed off. And I bet you really wanted to kick my ass. Well d!... Hold on a second, slacker. Taking care of business.
The waitress, or politically correct "server," returns with a tray of Gibson's Finest Whiskey. Briskly, she removes them from the tray and lines them up in front of The Plague. Plague grins at her and then watches her leave... with a grunt of approval, he returns his attention to the camera, resting casually back in his chair. Or at least, appearing to look casual.
Now D!, we've sure seen our share of drinking from NAPW wrestlers in the past few weeks? We've got The Calgary Connection somehow trying to contend for the NAPW Tag Titles despite being so soused on their cute little "Moe Green Specials" that MY FAVORITE WRESTLER STYLIN' KYLE could beat the both of them. With duct tape over his eyes. And his hands duct taped behind him. Hell, The Hatchet could have a spear even. Wink. The Decapitators really ought to consider AA. And of course, there's you D!. Drunk, on the floor, barely able to stand, just a day after being crowned the NAPW Champion. Let's think about it for a minute, huh?
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
The NAPW Champion. Hammered worse than Chris Jericho's credibility at the hands of Triple H. Representing not only the NAPW, but the UWP. Representing Edmonton. Representing...professional wrestling.
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
Kid, you said it yourself when we started our little jaunt down Whyte Ave last night. "I'm D!, NAPW champion, and people inform me it's a big deal." And that's it. That's all it took, you know? All it took for me to realize that you are the last person in the entire city of Edmonton --- no, the Province of Alberta --- no, the entire freaking world --- that should be representing the NAPW. Because you don't even realize just what it is that you wear around your waist. Hell, you even holding the championship has devalued it to the point that no-name scrubs like The Immortal and "Bad Boy" Joey Malone think they can take shots at it. Hey, you pointed it out yourself: "How come Plague never dealt with this?"
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
And like I said before, it's because of one reason: When The Plague walked around wearing that twenty pounds of gold, people FEARED, they RESPECTED, and they ENVIED the NAPW Champion! You don't have that, D!. Why the hell are you even in this? Oh sure, supposedly you love wrestling and you finally got off your couch, hit the gym and took some wrestling lessons in some scam artists backyard, then took a few kung-fu lessons for the hell of it. It's a great "Behind The Music" story. But I look at how you treat the belt and I wonder how the HELL I could have ever lost to a geek like you?
Shot. Glass brought down loudly on the table.
Kid...you got lucky.
SHOT. Glass brought down LOUDLY on the table.
D!...kid. You don't deserve that title. You beat me, one-two-three, and you'll always have that. Nobody can ever take that away from you. You won the title...but you don't deserve the title. Y'see kid, your future is like this: you're the Chris Jericho of the NAPW. You're going to be the first. He was the first undisputed champion of the WWF. You're the first man to beat The Plague for the title. But you know what? Sure, it's in the record books, and our friend Mr. Irvine can look in the mirror every morning and tell himself "I was the first"... but you know what? Nobody gives a DAMN. It's just a lame duck title run, a piece of trivia that makes people sit back and go "What? That short Canadian blonde was the champion of ANYTHING higher than the mid-card?"
SHOT. Glass down LOUDLY on the table.
It's gonna be the same, D! When the people of Edmonton look at the championship history of the NAPW they're going to see this strange little note that says "D! defeated The Plague for the title in November 2005!" And they're going to double-take, wondering how they could POSSIBLY have read it correctly! You're that guy, D! You're the footnote! Because listen up, you little punk: You got LUCKY. You've been runnin' your mouth off since day one, and last night somebody finally ran you over! Monday night! D! No barrage in the WORLD is going to save the rest of you from the worst ass-kicking of your life!
SHOT. Glass brought down LOUDLY on the table. And The Plague stands UP, on fire, angry, heated, passionate, smirking.
D! Bring all you've got! The people think we left it all in the ring one week ago, then they ain't seen NOTHING yet! Because I'm restocked, I'm restored, I've got something more in me that wasn't there before! D! Bring your barrage! Because I guarantee you, you son of a bitch, that I'm going to take SHOT---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
After SHOT ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
AFTER SHOT ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN.
And then when you've given it all, you're going to find out that THE PLAGUE can't be STOPPED, not by you, not by any man! And when the night is said and done, D!, the people are going to look at you, scored by THE BLACK DEATH, and they're going to know you by your REAL NAME, punk! It's real easy! ONE WORD! SAID REALLLLLL LOUD ---
SHOT. GLASS. DOWN. The sudden silence as The Plague smirks vindictively into the camera is shocking. Then, it breaks.
LOSER.
And with that, none the worse for wear despite countless shots of rye whiskey, The Plague grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair, swings it on, and walks out of the scene. Black.