Post by Static on Jan 31, 2006 1:35:07 GMT -5
(The Nexus One Sports Club, surprisingly enough, has become one of the hip places to spend a Saturday night in Edmonton despite its relative youth and the fact that, well, it's owned and operated by a pro wrestler who isn't exactly internationally known. Tonight, we've got a DJ, plenty of alcohol flowing, and an elite crowd that includes Edmonton's finest celebrities, such as Oilers wing Shawn Horcoff and film star Elisha Cuthbert. They mill around the club's open bar, chit-chat with each other, and stare at the club's many plasma tv's, forgetting for another night how drab and useless their lives really are. Eat sleep party procreate. Rinse and repeat.
At least that's how Static sees it. Don't tell Rex this, but Static has thought of this bar as his home away from home since it opened. Rex sometimes rags on him about it, and he'll spit some tripe about how it's within walking distance, the drinks are free, and it gives him an oppurtunity to mill about with people, which he's not used to. Bullshit. Like any other night he's here before close, Static is nowhere to be seen amongst the pigs. He's tucked away in a small room adjacent to the main floor, but only accessible via VIP key. There's a one-way mirror inside this room that lets Static take in all the partying without "them" knowing of it. Other than that luxury, there's a decent-looking pool table, a nice couch, a small tv, and a half-empty bottle of good gin.
As the metal-and-rap synergism pounds through the wall that he wishes were thicker, Static reclines back in the couch, brandishing the bottle as if it were a steel chair, violently. The mask is still ripped, exposing the more-noticable beard. The grueling draw of tonight and the Dark Chivalry onto the concrete has hurt his back and his ego. The tv's on. It's showing Casino's promo for the Canadian Cup challenge.
After a few sips and more than a moment of impatient sitting, he gets up to look through the window at the sea of head-bobs and hair bobs that cost too much money. And this is his life. Looking through that great divide. Flashback scene now.)
D!: The point is, Static, is that we're cut from the same damn cloth! We seem like different people, but yet we have so much in common! If I was drafted into the Provincial division and you the NAPW Title division, maybe we'd have reversed roles right about now!
(Static walks back to the couch and flops down. He's mumbling into the cushion.)
STATIC: Doomriders. You wanted to divert some attention from the classic in the making that is the Dudes/D-X/Crimes rivalry. You got it. One thing I've learned from beating the (BLEEP) out of Cameron Scott and Mike Johnston for the past few weeks, and having them return the favor my way is this: we are three guys who you don't want to have pissed off at you. I hear the real reason why D-X didn't show up for a week is cos they were waylaid in the hospital. Rumors of why they were there, including nervous breakdown at having been booted from the Rat Pack, and simply to give each other spongebaths, have supposedly been highly exaggerated, however.
(Grin.)
You'll hear more from the Dudes and I when we meet up later this week. There probably won't be as many good feelings or spirits as last time, but that's business. Nice match, tonight, fellas, but our business is clearly unfinished. With the Olympics fast coming up on us, I'm reminded of the Soviets, and their attitude going into the Games every year: "If we win gold, that shows how superior we are to the rest of the world." They were close to maniacal about it. The point? You've got my respect, and I'm committed to beating the everloving crap out of those three wack-jobs next week. But after that, it's back on. I've got a feeling that Wahoo Bobby won't let both of our teams beat the (BLEEP) out of D-X at the next supercard.
(Smirk.)
Getting back to the gold. I was pleased to notice that, first off, Chris Casino is putting on quite the show here. What is it now? $100 large, a trophy, and a title shot. Hurm. Stakes are high. Big ups, Chris. You know how to get the engine moving, the adrenaline running high. Good for the reflexes. It'll keep you on your toes. Word of advice, though: too many adrenaline rushes have been known to wreck havoc on the human nervous system. It's kind of like electro-shock therepy. After a while, the circuits are shot.
I must say, I'm quite pleased with my colleague throwing his hat in the ring. Another word of advice, going out to the poor, sappy sucker who's going to get a card taped to their locker soon reading "REX CALIBER" as their first-round opponent: get a good insurance plan prior. News flash, NAPW: Rex Caliber is a 245 pound shithammer who will (BLEEP) you up at the time you least expect it. Rex Caliber burns down cities and eats children for lunch, and tacks for snacks. He's one of NAPW's greatest secrets, absolutely destined to become a star in whatever division he decides to go in. He also saved Latin.
That's one of the reasons that I'm not entering in the tournament. Offering myself to a lion such as him is nothing short of pure lunacy, and if this tournament were to lose membership solely as a result of his entry, I wouldn't be surprised at all. I can only hope that Rex chooses to use his title oppurtunity to crush the skulls of D-X again, and not someone like D! or Minstrel. More fun for me.
(Wink.)
Another reason is not as obvious.
(Flashback again. Same D! quote. A Static one follows it. "Me and the NAPW title, huh?")
Some observers of NAPW's short history might think of me as some kind of batshit insane jeweler. Provincial champion, Tag champion. Just as I think it's Rex's destiny to smash the skulls of every single member of the roster eventually, it's mine to eventually wear that gold. Ever since D! injected that idea into my mainframe, the little people in my head have been working overtime with the pictures of me hoisting that belt over my head and becoming NAPW's first Triple Crown Champion. I've created this boundary for myself, maybe just to prove that I can destroy it.
It'll happen. Just not now. If I'm going against the finest that NAPW has to offer, it's going to be for the NAPW Championship itself. When I do decide to go for it, I'm going for broke. Even if I have to beat the Nexus One himself.
(Another slight grin. He's still on the couch as he lightly shoves the cameraman off.)
At least that's how Static sees it. Don't tell Rex this, but Static has thought of this bar as his home away from home since it opened. Rex sometimes rags on him about it, and he'll spit some tripe about how it's within walking distance, the drinks are free, and it gives him an oppurtunity to mill about with people, which he's not used to. Bullshit. Like any other night he's here before close, Static is nowhere to be seen amongst the pigs. He's tucked away in a small room adjacent to the main floor, but only accessible via VIP key. There's a one-way mirror inside this room that lets Static take in all the partying without "them" knowing of it. Other than that luxury, there's a decent-looking pool table, a nice couch, a small tv, and a half-empty bottle of good gin.
As the metal-and-rap synergism pounds through the wall that he wishes were thicker, Static reclines back in the couch, brandishing the bottle as if it were a steel chair, violently. The mask is still ripped, exposing the more-noticable beard. The grueling draw of tonight and the Dark Chivalry onto the concrete has hurt his back and his ego. The tv's on. It's showing Casino's promo for the Canadian Cup challenge.
After a few sips and more than a moment of impatient sitting, he gets up to look through the window at the sea of head-bobs and hair bobs that cost too much money. And this is his life. Looking through that great divide. Flashback scene now.)
D!: The point is, Static, is that we're cut from the same damn cloth! We seem like different people, but yet we have so much in common! If I was drafted into the Provincial division and you the NAPW Title division, maybe we'd have reversed roles right about now!
(Static walks back to the couch and flops down. He's mumbling into the cushion.)
STATIC: Doomriders. You wanted to divert some attention from the classic in the making that is the Dudes/D-X/Crimes rivalry. You got it. One thing I've learned from beating the (BLEEP) out of Cameron Scott and Mike Johnston for the past few weeks, and having them return the favor my way is this: we are three guys who you don't want to have pissed off at you. I hear the real reason why D-X didn't show up for a week is cos they were waylaid in the hospital. Rumors of why they were there, including nervous breakdown at having been booted from the Rat Pack, and simply to give each other spongebaths, have supposedly been highly exaggerated, however.
(Grin.)
You'll hear more from the Dudes and I when we meet up later this week. There probably won't be as many good feelings or spirits as last time, but that's business. Nice match, tonight, fellas, but our business is clearly unfinished. With the Olympics fast coming up on us, I'm reminded of the Soviets, and their attitude going into the Games every year: "If we win gold, that shows how superior we are to the rest of the world." They were close to maniacal about it. The point? You've got my respect, and I'm committed to beating the everloving crap out of those three wack-jobs next week. But after that, it's back on. I've got a feeling that Wahoo Bobby won't let both of our teams beat the (BLEEP) out of D-X at the next supercard.
(Smirk.)
Getting back to the gold. I was pleased to notice that, first off, Chris Casino is putting on quite the show here. What is it now? $100 large, a trophy, and a title shot. Hurm. Stakes are high. Big ups, Chris. You know how to get the engine moving, the adrenaline running high. Good for the reflexes. It'll keep you on your toes. Word of advice, though: too many adrenaline rushes have been known to wreck havoc on the human nervous system. It's kind of like electro-shock therepy. After a while, the circuits are shot.
I must say, I'm quite pleased with my colleague throwing his hat in the ring. Another word of advice, going out to the poor, sappy sucker who's going to get a card taped to their locker soon reading "REX CALIBER" as their first-round opponent: get a good insurance plan prior. News flash, NAPW: Rex Caliber is a 245 pound shithammer who will (BLEEP) you up at the time you least expect it. Rex Caliber burns down cities and eats children for lunch, and tacks for snacks. He's one of NAPW's greatest secrets, absolutely destined to become a star in whatever division he decides to go in. He also saved Latin.
That's one of the reasons that I'm not entering in the tournament. Offering myself to a lion such as him is nothing short of pure lunacy, and if this tournament were to lose membership solely as a result of his entry, I wouldn't be surprised at all. I can only hope that Rex chooses to use his title oppurtunity to crush the skulls of D-X again, and not someone like D! or Minstrel. More fun for me.
(Wink.)
Another reason is not as obvious.
(Flashback again. Same D! quote. A Static one follows it. "Me and the NAPW title, huh?")
Some observers of NAPW's short history might think of me as some kind of batshit insane jeweler. Provincial champion, Tag champion. Just as I think it's Rex's destiny to smash the skulls of every single member of the roster eventually, it's mine to eventually wear that gold. Ever since D! injected that idea into my mainframe, the little people in my head have been working overtime with the pictures of me hoisting that belt over my head and becoming NAPW's first Triple Crown Champion. I've created this boundary for myself, maybe just to prove that I can destroy it.
It'll happen. Just not now. If I'm going against the finest that NAPW has to offer, it's going to be for the NAPW Championship itself. When I do decide to go for it, I'm going for broke. Even if I have to beat the Nexus One himself.
(Another slight grin. He's still on the couch as he lightly shoves the cameraman off.)