Post by The Predator on Aug 3, 2012 11:19:12 GMT -6
We see footage of a raucous bar, patrons partying, slamming drinks, and having an all around good time. The girls are beautiful, and the booze is flowing with an almost ludicrous freedom. The Predator stands amidst it all, looking nearly uncomfortable, World Heavyweight Title slung about his shoulders. Several partygoers try to offer him drinks, joints, pills, but he rejects them all, surveying the party with an almost serene expression. He looks up to the wall above the bar, and the photos that line it. First, the black and white shots of a large, moustached man throwing a variety of costumed, heavy gorged opponents about crude, smaller ring from a bygone era. Then, the shots of him with a variety of different woman, many holding flags to signify country after country, all over the world. The photo's transition to color, and the man pictured changes. He is even larger, now, more handsome, long flowing locks of blonde hair, an immaculate physique. The pictures depict a variety of complex maneuvers, from submission holds to high flying, top rope moves. When the man isn't depicted in action, he is never depicted without a championship belt. The pictures grow better in quality, and eventually, the identity changes again. A handsome, massive young man, almost too muscular to be believed, throwing around men like sandbags. Holding titles. Slimming down. Holding legendary titles. And finally, a new, high definition shot, of the man, slimmed down but still imposing, tall and commanding, lifting aloft the USPW heavyweight title. The Predator walks out of the bar with a smirk on his face, the signs reading “Rogers” flickering in the distance as he lopes across the night.
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The Predator sits back in a chair, the webcam he has just switched on capturing his full mass. Beside him, a small antique table, upon which he places his championship.
"When I retired as world champion, three times in a row, they called me the Last King. A champion defined as much by his bizarre undefeated streak as by his talents. The Last King, Emperor of A Bygone Era. When I came out of retirement, and joined USPW, I was told many things by doubters and critics. That my actions dishonored my own legend. That I was an aging man, stuck between the imposing weapon I used to be and the bundle of arthritic bones and torn muscles I would be in my old age. I could never face down a young lion, as I myself used to be, and succeed. Lift the title? I had abdicated my throne. The new princes scurrying for my crown were far to imposing."
He looks over at the belt.
"They were wrong. The King has returned to his throne. I return after nearly seven years, and I sit once again, after just 2 months of activity, at the top of the heap. I have solidified my legacy, and written my legend into stone. And it feels AWESOME."
He grins, and shakes his head.
"I'm a fan of this sport. I read every article on ESPN, follow all the websites. To see my name as #1 in all my favorite rankings...To see articles asking if I just might be the greatest singles competitor ever...Tickles me pink. This is truly the coolest time of my life. It is in that spirit, that I am breaking my promise to retire from the sport that I have once again reigning over. Fan's loved the idea of me coming back and achieving this because they wanted to see epic matches against all the amazing talent that filled the void of my absences. To see my rivalry with the Hell Patrol finished. To see me in great tag matches. To see me on a ladder. To see what a Final Glory through a ladder looks likes."
He leans back.
"To see how many times I can defend 20 pounds of 14 karat gold from anybody who wants it. To fend of the challengers who take a stab at the target on my back. And I'm going to give that to all of them. Screw retiring. Let's wrestle some awesome matches, and see how great a king I truly am. Maybe it'll answer the questions that linger about how good I was, as well."
He appears pleased.
"As a five-time heavyweight champion, I have broken my brother's record and tied my father's. The Rogers family name goes strong. We just might be the greatest three-generation wrestling family in the history of this sport. If they weren't smiling on me earlier, I think I've earned a grin or two from those boys, wherever they are."
He settles back in, taking an all business pose and expression.
"On the question of Mike Mahoney. Mike, you are the greatest mixed martial artist alive. Truly, a pound for pound phenom. I remember how upset the MMA world was when you gave professional wrestling a shot. “Oh no!”, they cried. “We'll never see him beat Georges St. Pierre, Anderson Silva, Jon Jones, and Junior : Dos Santos in the same night now!”. I'll admit, Mike, I was upset, as well. You have the most special blend I've ever seen in the combat world, a whirling dervish of offense I can now personally call incredibly formidable. You are, indeed, a fighting legend."
He leans forward.
"But greatness is not a right, it is a privilege. Good as you are, no amount of skill and no accomplishment will EVER give you the right to enter the ring of my father, my uncle, my brother, my friends, my rivals, and make a mockery of what we have done for 150 years. You won the greatest prize in wrestling, yes, but you did it off of my misfortune. You stole my spot in a battle royale, and you snatched up this crown. Did you defend it like a man, like the champion everybody thought you were? No. You talked shit, you tweeted, and you beat up a defenseless old man to make your penthouse pet hug you a little closer, and so your own ego would keep you even warmer."
His voice is rising.
"I HAD to act. My match with Matt Hawk hurt me, yes, but I had the opportunity to FORCE you to stand your ground and defend the title you were spitting on, or lose it. You lost it, Mike. You lost it because wrestling isn't about superstars. It isn't about offense. It's about what you can take, what you can endure. The fighter who hits the hardest, the fastest, often wins. The wrestler who can take the most punishment and deliver it back, almost always wins over here. I took the best you could offer, at half my strength, beat up from an epic match I had decided not 20 minutes before our bell rang. And you couldn't take mine."
He sits back.
"I know you are going to exercise your rematch clause, because I fucked up your plans. You don't get to exit this sport making a mockery of it. You don't get to be champion, anymore. So I suspect a fighter like yourself to want to do something about it. I welcome that challenge. I will beat you again, most likely even easier. I wish you the best of luck licking your wounds. If you wish to stand any chance against me again, humble up and challenge me like you should have defended against me. I'd like that. I get goosebumps imagining it. Please oblige me."
He salutes.
"With that, Predator peeps, I'm signing off. I'm honored to be your champion again. I hope I make it fun till the day I lose it. With your support, I'll fight hard to make sure that takes a real, real long time. Many special moments ahead. God bless you all."
He stands, reaches into the screen, and it flickers to black, the webcam switched to it's standby state.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Predator sits back in a chair, the webcam he has just switched on capturing his full mass. Beside him, a small antique table, upon which he places his championship.
"When I retired as world champion, three times in a row, they called me the Last King. A champion defined as much by his bizarre undefeated streak as by his talents. The Last King, Emperor of A Bygone Era. When I came out of retirement, and joined USPW, I was told many things by doubters and critics. That my actions dishonored my own legend. That I was an aging man, stuck between the imposing weapon I used to be and the bundle of arthritic bones and torn muscles I would be in my old age. I could never face down a young lion, as I myself used to be, and succeed. Lift the title? I had abdicated my throne. The new princes scurrying for my crown were far to imposing."
He looks over at the belt.
"They were wrong. The King has returned to his throne. I return after nearly seven years, and I sit once again, after just 2 months of activity, at the top of the heap. I have solidified my legacy, and written my legend into stone. And it feels AWESOME."
He grins, and shakes his head.
"I'm a fan of this sport. I read every article on ESPN, follow all the websites. To see my name as #1 in all my favorite rankings...To see articles asking if I just might be the greatest singles competitor ever...Tickles me pink. This is truly the coolest time of my life. It is in that spirit, that I am breaking my promise to retire from the sport that I have once again reigning over. Fan's loved the idea of me coming back and achieving this because they wanted to see epic matches against all the amazing talent that filled the void of my absences. To see my rivalry with the Hell Patrol finished. To see me in great tag matches. To see me on a ladder. To see what a Final Glory through a ladder looks likes."
He leans back.
"To see how many times I can defend 20 pounds of 14 karat gold from anybody who wants it. To fend of the challengers who take a stab at the target on my back. And I'm going to give that to all of them. Screw retiring. Let's wrestle some awesome matches, and see how great a king I truly am. Maybe it'll answer the questions that linger about how good I was, as well."
He appears pleased.
"As a five-time heavyweight champion, I have broken my brother's record and tied my father's. The Rogers family name goes strong. We just might be the greatest three-generation wrestling family in the history of this sport. If they weren't smiling on me earlier, I think I've earned a grin or two from those boys, wherever they are."
He settles back in, taking an all business pose and expression.
"On the question of Mike Mahoney. Mike, you are the greatest mixed martial artist alive. Truly, a pound for pound phenom. I remember how upset the MMA world was when you gave professional wrestling a shot. “Oh no!”, they cried. “We'll never see him beat Georges St. Pierre, Anderson Silva, Jon Jones, and Junior : Dos Santos in the same night now!”. I'll admit, Mike, I was upset, as well. You have the most special blend I've ever seen in the combat world, a whirling dervish of offense I can now personally call incredibly formidable. You are, indeed, a fighting legend."
He leans forward.
"But greatness is not a right, it is a privilege. Good as you are, no amount of skill and no accomplishment will EVER give you the right to enter the ring of my father, my uncle, my brother, my friends, my rivals, and make a mockery of what we have done for 150 years. You won the greatest prize in wrestling, yes, but you did it off of my misfortune. You stole my spot in a battle royale, and you snatched up this crown. Did you defend it like a man, like the champion everybody thought you were? No. You talked shit, you tweeted, and you beat up a defenseless old man to make your penthouse pet hug you a little closer, and so your own ego would keep you even warmer."
His voice is rising.
"I HAD to act. My match with Matt Hawk hurt me, yes, but I had the opportunity to FORCE you to stand your ground and defend the title you were spitting on, or lose it. You lost it, Mike. You lost it because wrestling isn't about superstars. It isn't about offense. It's about what you can take, what you can endure. The fighter who hits the hardest, the fastest, often wins. The wrestler who can take the most punishment and deliver it back, almost always wins over here. I took the best you could offer, at half my strength, beat up from an epic match I had decided not 20 minutes before our bell rang. And you couldn't take mine."
He sits back.
"I know you are going to exercise your rematch clause, because I fucked up your plans. You don't get to exit this sport making a mockery of it. You don't get to be champion, anymore. So I suspect a fighter like yourself to want to do something about it. I welcome that challenge. I will beat you again, most likely even easier. I wish you the best of luck licking your wounds. If you wish to stand any chance against me again, humble up and challenge me like you should have defended against me. I'd like that. I get goosebumps imagining it. Please oblige me."
He salutes.
"With that, Predator peeps, I'm signing off. I'm honored to be your champion again. I hope I make it fun till the day I lose it. With your support, I'll fight hard to make sure that takes a real, real long time. Many special moments ahead. God bless you all."
He stands, reaches into the screen, and it flickers to black, the webcam switched to it's standby state.