Post by Simply Beautiful on Mar 21, 2007 15:04:00 GMT -5
Fade in. Simply Beautiful, the man who tore through the entire NAPW roster to get to Lloyd Rees, backstage after the final Tuesday Night fights. Without competing, he stole the show and put locker room on notice – he wants to be the Sole Survivor, and he’ll take down anyone and everyone in his path. The “wildcard” persona he seemed to disdain so much has become his calling card; he’s now become the man everyone is talking about, while staying on the outside looking in regarding the NAPW title picture.
But that’s not what’s on his mind right now. Even the Sole Survivor match itself can wait. He’ll address that issue in due time. Right now, his only thought? You guessed it: Get Rees. Make him pay. He can’t let that son of a bitch get one up on him, he’s beaten him too many times and he’s come too far to let him win when their rivalry is at its boiling point. Perhaps Bill Hewson said it best. Maybe this really won’t end until one of them dies. SB’s willing to go that far. He’ll die before he lets a man like Lloyd Rees beat him.
His face is devoid of emotion. Adding to that are his sunglasses, a cheap pair of Ray Ban’s rather than his usual bawdy pair, concealing anything one might be able to gather by looking into those often telling blue eyes.
SB: It all started with one t-shirt. (SB raises his arm, holding up a crumpled up shirt.) A week after I won the Kiniski Cup, I made this very shirt – maybe to get into people’s heads, maybe just for my own amusement, who knows. Fact is, I made it. Do you remember what it said, Lloyd? I’m sure you do. “SB – The only REAL Champion.” Pictures of you, Yellow Chicken, DX, all crossed out. SB standing tall. (He unfolds the shirt, and holds it in front of him with both hands out over his face. The camera zooms in on the picture of Rees) One shirt started it all. I like to think that I’m good with mind games, but I didn’t know that a beer drinkin’, fish kissin’, foul smellin’ Newfie who claims to be the toughest bastard this side of the border would be such easy prey to just a simple, cute little shirt. (he tosses the shirt away) It’s a bit more than that now, isn’t it? Sure, I could go on about the Winner’s Circle, the flaming table, the whole nine yards – but the truth is that that’s been settled. Look at your former teammates: all gone. I’ve already had my revenge, like I’ve said before. I could go on and on about you and Plague trying to punk me out, but I won’t. I sent Plague packing, just like I did to D!. Shit, I could even talk about your little alliance with David Banks of all people. I could say that being forced to tap the hell out at Cold Snap is what’s driving me – but that ain’t the case either. The fact is, there’s one thing that has me so riled up to get in the ring with you one more time.
I just flat out hate your guts.
From the first moment I looked at ya, I knew we’d be enemies. You’d make your stupid (BLEEP)in’ remarks backstage, talk shit about how you were the top dog around here, about how you beat D! and you were “da first and da man, b’ye” to do this that and the other thing. And it just ate at me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a loudmouth. But I swallowed my pride. I was the “new guy”. If I did what I wanted to do, which was just punch your (BLEEP)in’ mouth loose, Winchell woulda shipped me outta here on a crate marked “Indie Hell” before I could even hit ya with the left. But I made myself a promise. I swore that if I ever got in the ring with you, I’d tear off your head and shit down your neck. I told every one of the young guys in the back I was gunning for you. That shirt? That was my bait. And you bit hook, line, and sinker. It made everything I wanted to do to you perfectly legal. Winchell couldn’t fire me just for wrestling you. And I won…by disqualification. If tying is like kissing your sister, beating the Champ by DQ has to be close to bangin’ ‘er. But that was it, pretty much settled. We went separate ways – you started losing, I became a marquee name. But then you made a mistake. You wanted Bickle – but instead, ya got ME. Uh-oh. One thing led to another, and we ended up back in the ring, one-on-one. This time (nods) this time, I got my pinfall. And you got twelve stitches. Thank you, and you’re welcome.
I thought it was over – don’t get me wrong, I didn’t soften up to you or anything big guy, I just figured you didn’t have enough sack left in ya to take another shot at me. Lo and behold, I was wrong. Apparently, you still want more. I guess getting your eye sealed shut by a SexyKick didn’t satisfy your ass kickin’ needs. Maybe it’s that false pride (BLEEP)in’ with ya. Whatever your reasoning is, you don’t want to let this die. Well…me neither. There’s nothing in this world I want more than to beat you a third time. But I want to FINISH the job this time around. The last two didn’t cut it. You’re still breathing – I can’t have that. This isn’t a storyline, folks. This is as real as it gets. You think wrestling’s fake? Come see how fake it looks when I make Lloyd say…
I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT!
Because that’s gonna be the only thing that can save you at Sole Survivor. Pinfall is too easy. Submission isn’t satisfying enough. DQ’s and Countout’s are for women and children. I’m gonna break you in spirit, or in half. Whichever comes first. But you will not walk out of Toronto. PERIOD. Not without giving me what I want. Your SOUL, Lloyd. I want your soul, I wanna take it in my hands and CRUSH IT, because you’re nothing but a drain on this Earth. God’s little practical joke gone horribly wrong.
It’s all coming to a close. Me. You. I Quit Match.
For Pride. For Honor. For BLOOD.
Dead silence. The camera focuses solely on the face of the stoic Italian Icon. Five seconds go by…and then a fade out.
But that’s not what’s on his mind right now. Even the Sole Survivor match itself can wait. He’ll address that issue in due time. Right now, his only thought? You guessed it: Get Rees. Make him pay. He can’t let that son of a bitch get one up on him, he’s beaten him too many times and he’s come too far to let him win when their rivalry is at its boiling point. Perhaps Bill Hewson said it best. Maybe this really won’t end until one of them dies. SB’s willing to go that far. He’ll die before he lets a man like Lloyd Rees beat him.
His face is devoid of emotion. Adding to that are his sunglasses, a cheap pair of Ray Ban’s rather than his usual bawdy pair, concealing anything one might be able to gather by looking into those often telling blue eyes.
SB: It all started with one t-shirt. (SB raises his arm, holding up a crumpled up shirt.) A week after I won the Kiniski Cup, I made this very shirt – maybe to get into people’s heads, maybe just for my own amusement, who knows. Fact is, I made it. Do you remember what it said, Lloyd? I’m sure you do. “SB – The only REAL Champion.” Pictures of you, Yellow Chicken, DX, all crossed out. SB standing tall. (He unfolds the shirt, and holds it in front of him with both hands out over his face. The camera zooms in on the picture of Rees) One shirt started it all. I like to think that I’m good with mind games, but I didn’t know that a beer drinkin’, fish kissin’, foul smellin’ Newfie who claims to be the toughest bastard this side of the border would be such easy prey to just a simple, cute little shirt. (he tosses the shirt away) It’s a bit more than that now, isn’t it? Sure, I could go on about the Winner’s Circle, the flaming table, the whole nine yards – but the truth is that that’s been settled. Look at your former teammates: all gone. I’ve already had my revenge, like I’ve said before. I could go on and on about you and Plague trying to punk me out, but I won’t. I sent Plague packing, just like I did to D!. Shit, I could even talk about your little alliance with David Banks of all people. I could say that being forced to tap the hell out at Cold Snap is what’s driving me – but that ain’t the case either. The fact is, there’s one thing that has me so riled up to get in the ring with you one more time.
I just flat out hate your guts.
From the first moment I looked at ya, I knew we’d be enemies. You’d make your stupid (BLEEP)in’ remarks backstage, talk shit about how you were the top dog around here, about how you beat D! and you were “da first and da man, b’ye” to do this that and the other thing. And it just ate at me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a loudmouth. But I swallowed my pride. I was the “new guy”. If I did what I wanted to do, which was just punch your (BLEEP)in’ mouth loose, Winchell woulda shipped me outta here on a crate marked “Indie Hell” before I could even hit ya with the left. But I made myself a promise. I swore that if I ever got in the ring with you, I’d tear off your head and shit down your neck. I told every one of the young guys in the back I was gunning for you. That shirt? That was my bait. And you bit hook, line, and sinker. It made everything I wanted to do to you perfectly legal. Winchell couldn’t fire me just for wrestling you. And I won…by disqualification. If tying is like kissing your sister, beating the Champ by DQ has to be close to bangin’ ‘er. But that was it, pretty much settled. We went separate ways – you started losing, I became a marquee name. But then you made a mistake. You wanted Bickle – but instead, ya got ME. Uh-oh. One thing led to another, and we ended up back in the ring, one-on-one. This time (nods) this time, I got my pinfall. And you got twelve stitches. Thank you, and you’re welcome.
I thought it was over – don’t get me wrong, I didn’t soften up to you or anything big guy, I just figured you didn’t have enough sack left in ya to take another shot at me. Lo and behold, I was wrong. Apparently, you still want more. I guess getting your eye sealed shut by a SexyKick didn’t satisfy your ass kickin’ needs. Maybe it’s that false pride (BLEEP)in’ with ya. Whatever your reasoning is, you don’t want to let this die. Well…me neither. There’s nothing in this world I want more than to beat you a third time. But I want to FINISH the job this time around. The last two didn’t cut it. You’re still breathing – I can’t have that. This isn’t a storyline, folks. This is as real as it gets. You think wrestling’s fake? Come see how fake it looks when I make Lloyd say…
I QUIT! I QUIT! I QUIT!
Because that’s gonna be the only thing that can save you at Sole Survivor. Pinfall is too easy. Submission isn’t satisfying enough. DQ’s and Countout’s are for women and children. I’m gonna break you in spirit, or in half. Whichever comes first. But you will not walk out of Toronto. PERIOD. Not without giving me what I want. Your SOUL, Lloyd. I want your soul, I wanna take it in my hands and CRUSH IT, because you’re nothing but a drain on this Earth. God’s little practical joke gone horribly wrong.
It’s all coming to a close. Me. You. I Quit Match.
For Pride. For Honor. For BLOOD.
Dead silence. The camera focuses solely on the face of the stoic Italian Icon. Five seconds go by…and then a fade out.