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Post by Osh Vaughan on Dec 25, 2021 12:31:54 GMT
Jon Cavanagh vs Brandon Hendrix vs Erick Elliot
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Post by Deleted on Dec 28, 2021 3:27:46 GMT
Roleplay I - “Lions don’t lose sleep, over the opinions of sheep” A soft sound of a winding turbo diesel engine fills the coach bus as it motors down the highway of Manchester, England. The low winter sun beams in through the tinted window and onto the notepad in which Erick has rested on his thighs with his legs up against the seat ahead of him. Snares and high-hat sounds bleed into the atmosphere from large oversized headphones that sit over the top of a white hood on Erick’s head. He nods his head along and continues to fill the page with his notepad full of scripts and drawings, a form of release Erick found to help keep his focus. Erick nods his head to the beat of the song he is listening too, mumbling lyrics and looks out the window as the song begins to absorb his attention. He finds himself lost in a trance and continues to stare out the window into the winter scenery of England. He has found himself in this situation many times, lost in a trance, staring out a window and begins getting caught into a flash back of him starring out a window in his high school back in Brooklynn, NY. A younger, Erick Elliott, sits at his desk with a similar notepad sitting on his desk filled with words and drawings, leaving no white space. He nods his head along to a beat with the one headphone in his ear, which he always tries to keep his teachers from noticing while also keeping his hood up. He maintains a hard stare at the window and pictures various scenarios in his head. Many which he is in a wrestling ring, watching his opponent every move and breaking it down into a tempo like his song. Sounds from the classroom begin intruding his trance; his visions begin to fade as the feminine sound of his teacher voice intrude. Teacher // Mr. Elliott…Mr. Elliott…MR. ELLIOTT!Erick blinks and snaps back into reality, not knowing how long he was lost for. He brings his attention forward with his teacher looking at him agitated while his whole class looks back as well.
Erick Elliott // Sorry, Ms. Johnson. Ms. Johnson does not accept the apology, places both her hands her desk, and sighs. Ms. Johnson // Now would you care to remind me and the rest of the class, everything I just explained. Erick rolls his eyes and sits back into the hard plastic chair with his arms crossed, knowing damn well she knew he did not hear a word she said. Erick Elliott // No ma’am and frankly, I don’t give a shit. The children in the class gasp and his teacher, Ms. Johnson eyes turn into a hard glare. Ms. Johnson // Okay, first we will start with you taking your hood down.
Erick looks off to the side and “psh’s” the request, but reluctantly takes down his hood. Ms. Johnson // Second, take that earbud out and lastly, I will see you at the principals officer after class and your mother will be there as well.
The few of his classmates let out a ignorant “Ouuuuu” to add to the situation. Erick shakes his head and then leans back into his chair throwing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He loses his focus again, with the voice his teacher turning into a mumble as she resumes her lecture while Erick stares out the window again.
Erick’s flashback then skips ahead to him sitting in a chair outside the principal’s office as he overhears the conversion his mother and Ms. Johnson. Ms. Johnson // This is occurring time and time again, Ms. Elliott. His attitude is becoming worst and its a huge disruption to the class which is affecting the learning environment. We believe there are some bigger issues going on because he cannot pay attention to anything going on in class and its beginning to severely affect his grades. Erick’s mother then begins to interrupt with her soft-spoken voice. Ms. Elliott // Well, well…um, you see, Erick is a very special boy. He is not like the other children and I know my boy does not need to be medicated. I am sick and tired of everyone telling me he needs to be medicated. There is no way I am putting those toxic chemicals in my boy’s body. I have looked up other alternatives and found a group of people with similar..um, uh, uniqueness and it all makes sense now.
Erick’s mind and heart begins racing, not knowing how his teacher and principal are about to react. He sits up and waits for his mothers response. A secret he has been keeping for awhile now.
Ms. Johnson // Oh yeah? And what is so unique about Erick? Ms. Elliott //Well, I spoke with the group which involved several other parents and I explained the situation with Erick and they all agreed and said, he is one of the Indigo Children and it makes so much sense.
There is a short period of silence, the principal slightly chuckles and then Ms. Johnson speaks up. Ms. Johnson // Indigo Children? Ms. Elliott, what exactly is this group of people? Sounds like a cult to me.
Erick’s mothers voice becomes slightly upset as the teacher mocks her. Ms. Elliott // Its not like that at all! Its believing that your kids don’t have a mental disability and pumping them full a pills making them mindless zombies. Its actually a gift, god creates everyone for a reason, and these group of children are extraordinary to anything they set their mind to. I have seen it with Erick, he is so talented in music and most recently has obsessed with wrestling. If it is something that speaks to them, they indulge in it and become the best at it.
Erick looks over and notices another kid in the office sitting next to him, Erick can hear him chuckling to himself, trying to contain it but can’t. Erick throws his hood up and storms in the office. He walks fast down the hall way, keeping his head down and hands in his pocket. Upset and angry that he is being labeled as "different" in the yes of his teachers and peers. The high rev of the bus diesel engine begins to intrude Erick’s flash back and then the loud release of the air breaks snaps Erick out of it. He looks around and sees people standing up and grabbing their coats. He rubs his eyes, dry from staring out a window, his vision focuses back, and he sees the IIW stadium. He brings his headset down around his neck and smiles; he finally made it. Erick flips the inked up pages folded behind his notepad back up front and puts it into his backpack. He stands up and puts a black mask with white letter grunge text reading “Better Off Dead”, an album he had wrote with his group, Flatbush Zombies. He grabs his backpack from the chair and slings it over his shoulder. Erick walks down the narrow steps of the bus, steps a couple feet away and stares up the giant stadium with the big blue IIW logo lighted up above the entrance. The bright winter light shines in through the entrance as Erick opens one of the double steel doors. He steps in facing a large hallway and ceilings. Erick looks down at his phone to get the directions that was sent to him to get to his change room; he noticed a text from his girlfriend, Alyssa. “Miss you already but I know you will be coming home a star” Erick grinned and started making his way through the stadium trying to follow the directions on his phone.
Erick takes the time absorb his surroundings. He tilts his head to greet other talents standing in the hallway. Pictures of famous talent and notable matches line the walls on both sides, he keeps his head turned towards the wall on his right, walking slower to pay more attention to the farmed photos. Erick slow walk becomes a stop and he takes a couple steps back to look at the framed photo of John Cavanagh with two belts on the ground with his handed extended out to Tyler Debonair from the Explosion PPV International Champion vs Canadian Champion. Erick nods his head in approval, knowing he is up against some of the best talent in his debut.
Erick continues down the hall and sees a blue door, the same blue as the IIW, with a black nameplate and white text reading “Erick Elliott”. Erick opens the door to a large white suite. Erick Elliott // Now this is what I signed up for! Erick drops his bag at on a bench close by to the door. A large flat screen tv mounted to the wall has IIW replays showing on mute. He approaches two black leather chairs situated near the TV. He stops before he sits down, grabs a joint out of the pocket of his hoodie, and sparks it up. He tilts his head back and the sound of the paper crackling soothes his mind, and exhales a large cloud of smoke. Erick sits down into one of the chairs and lets out a big sigh in relief to be finally, where he needs to be after a long couple days of travelling. He takes another draw of the joint *KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*. Erick sits up quickly, exhaling the smoke and waving it with his hand trying to disperse the smoke. Erick Elliott // Oh shit. Uhhhh, give me on second! Erick looks around frantically trying to find somewhere to extinguish the joint. He notices a side table to the left of his chair, quickly dabs it out there, and puts the joint back in his pocket. Erick Elliott // Alright, you can come in!The door opens slowly and a man’s head sticks in with big eyeglasses and a stiff clean comb over. Larry Fishburo // Hello sir, I’m Larry Fishburo and I would like to do a quick interview with you.Erick Elliott // Uh yeah sure, come in and take a seat. Larry timidly enters the room with a camera operator following in behind him. He stiffly walks his way to the other chair, fixing his red tie to the colar that Is buttoned tight to his neck. As he approaches the chair, he fluffs his brown plaid blazer and sits down with his hands on his knees of his matching brown plaid pants. Larry looks over at Erick and nods awkwardly at him and Erick nods back. Larry then begins obnoxiously sniffs around the room and leans over to whisper to Erick. Larry Fishburo // Uhhh, do you think it smells like…Marijuana in here?
Erick then sniffs too and looks around pretending to be in confusion. Erick Elliott // Nah man, I’m not smelling anything.
Larry nods his head quickly, agreeing with Erick and sits back straight in his chair. Larry Fishburo // Yeah you’re right, maybe its my… socks..or something.
Erick raises his eyebrows, sits forwards in his chair, puts his elbows, and places his hand over top of the other. Larry Fishburo // So firstly I would like to welcome you to the IIW and uh…*AHEM*, its great to see new talent such as yourself come into our organization.
Larry seems very nervous, trying to compose his thoughts. Erick Elliott // Uhh, yeah thank you man, it was my calling for me to be here so it is great to be finally sitting in the stadium of IIW. Larry Fishburo // Well they have definitely put you in a doozy of a debut match. A three way fight with John Cavanagh and Brandon Hendrix. That must be terrifying!
Erick throws his head back and chuckles. Erick Elliott // Annnd why would that be? Larry Fishburo // Well because they are both big…and they both yell…and they are both angry.
Ericks chuckle turns into a laugh, amused by the question. Erick Elliott // Man, do you think I would join a wrestling company literally called INTENSE International Wrestling and be scared of facing a few screaming gorillas? This is what I’m here for, to show the world you don’t have to be an Irish mobster or some gladiator looking motherfucker to wrestle. All they do is just throw their hands around, hoping they land and if that does not work, they power bomb you and lay their fat ass on top of you. Not to diminish any accomplishments from them, Cavanagh is a strong motherfucker and he has the achievements and a title to show it. As for Hendrix, well, word on the street is homeboy was already fired for being a prick backstage and now he’s back with his tail between his leg and now he just recently lost the first bracket of the Ice Crown tournament to a 130lb diva, so I’ll let that fact speak for itself. But I have the one key that no one else in this stadium has that will bring me top success.
Larry gasps, intrigued by what Erick possess, He leans in and quietly asks. Larry Fishburo // And what do you have that no one else has?
Erick leans in and quietly says back. Erick Elliott // I am Indigo. Larry stays leaned in and begins to laugh, thinking Erick is joking. Erick keeps a serious look on his face and Larry realizes that he is not joking. Larry immediately stops laughing and clears his throat.
Larry Fishburo // Uhhhh…Erick….you’re not indigo…you’re ummm
Erick rolls his eyes, getting tired of the stalling from Larry. Erick Elliott // I’m what, Larry?
Larry then nervously whispers to Erick. Larry Fishburo // You’re black...
Erick sits back up in his chair and lets out a sound of frustration. Erick Elliott // No, stupid ass I’m not saying I’m the color indigo, I mean, I am part of a group of people known as the Indigo.
Larry hangs his head and begins shaking it embarrassingly. Larry Fishburo // Oh gosh, I am sorry. You did it again, Larry! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!Larry slaps his hands down on the arms of the chair in anger/embarrassment. Larry Fishburo // Oh no, its happening again…
Erick looks around concerned as the camera operator turns the camera away, pointing it towards the door, trying to calm down Larry. Erick, confused about the situation, looks to the camera operator as Larry sobs. Erick Elliott // What does he mean its happening again?
Camera Operator // A nervous breakdown, hes been on edge ever since he was locked in a broom cupboard for over 14 years.
Erick looks around even more confused and in disbelief. Erick Elliott // Uh, how the fuck does someone stay locked into a broom cupboard for over 14 years?
Larry speaks up while sobbing. Larry Fishburo // It was really dark in there, okay!
Erick sits back and puts his hands up to try to defuse the situation. Erick Elliott // Okay shit man, I’m sorry that happened to you. How about I explain what we Indigoes are, okay?
Larry raises his head and sniffles from a runny nose he got from sobbing, he nods his head wanting Erick to continue. The camera operator brings the camera back to continue the interview. Erick Elliott // Indigo Children are people who are, let’s say for simple terms, born different. You may hear some people refer to their indifferences as a disability such as ADD or ADHD. Well, us Indigoes don’t consider it to be a disability, but rather, a gift. We see things differently and have access to parts of our mind that others do not. That’s why we don’t use mind-numbing pharmaceuticals that deny us our god given privilege to access these parts. I found this especially useful in music and then when I discovered wrestling, I was able to watch and map how everyone moves to something similar as a tempo of a song. I then develop my own style of wrestling based on the techniques used by opponents and I blueprint the entire match in my mind. This is why I am known as “The Architect”.
Larry begins to cheer up and composes himself again, fixing the tie tight around his neck once again. Larry Fishburo // Don’t you worry that people will call you crazy?
Erick smirks at the question. Erick Elliott // My friend, lions don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.
Larry is impressed by Erick’s response and then becomes alert, as a realization falls upon Larry. Larry Fishburo // Do you think maybe that I’m a…uh..an indigo? Erick Elliott // Well it depends, do you feel like you’re more in tune with your consciousness than others and find certain things captivate you and are naturally great at it?Larry Fishburo // I think I am great interviewer.
Erick nods his head up and down try to hide the disagreement. At this point, he really just wants this interview to be over with. Erick Elliott // Yeah, yeah, it DEFINITELY sounds like you’re an Indigo, homie. You roam with us lions!
A goofy smile lights up on Larrys face like a child on Christmas. Larry Fishburo // I knew it, I knew there was something special about me!Erick Elliott // Yeah you’re definitely special my man.
Larry slaps his hands on his lap, signaling that the interview is about to end. Larry Fishburo // Well, Erick, it was nice to meet one of my fellow Indigo brethren’s. I learned a lot about you but learned even more about myself. Erick Elliott // For sure, this was definitely one of the most…interesting interviews I have had. Larry Fishburo // Is there anything you would like to address the IIW world about my indigo brother, Erick “The Architect” Elliott.
Erick chuckles to Larry's response. He sits up in the chair and looks into the camera. Erick Elliott // I would like to wish John Cavanagh and Brandon Hendrix the best of luck. I am sure Hendrix is going in with lots to prove since losing to a diva. Nonetheless, to be put against an International Champion on your debut match, I have the chance to prove the world that us indigoes (Erick winks at Larry) have a special talent that can change the sport as we know it. I may seem chill and passive, but once I hit the ramp and my theme song plays, I turn the the fuck up. A shocked look falls on Larry's face, looking visibly uncomfortable Erick just cursed on camera. Larry Fishburo // Well, thank you, Erick and good luck on your debut match.
Larry stands up and exits the room with the camera operator. Erick lets out a sigh relief, happy that it is over. Erick Elliott // What the fuck just happened?
He shakes his head and puts his headset on over his head. He digs the joint out of the pocket of his sweater and relights it. It takes a long draw and hold it in, looking up at the ceiling, exhales and closes his eyes. End Roleplay
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Post by Brandon Hendrix on Jan 6, 2022 1:03:58 GMT
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Post by The Celtic Club on Jan 14, 2022 20:57:37 GMT
The scene opened to the sight of smoking billowing upward inside of a familiar place. The Blarney Stone Irish Pub and Grill in Hells Kitchen, New York. The place looked like no one had cleaned up from the last few days of business. Bottles had been strewn throughout the different booths, the billiards table still had an unfinished game sitting atop. The smoke was coming from a hand-rolled blunt held by the IIW International Champion, John Cavanagh. Johnnie took a hit off of his medicine, a deep inhale followed by an exhale through his nostrils. John smiled at the camera from behind the bar.
Red Alert has come and gone, our alleged “off-season” has come and passed as well. Yet, here we stand…a new year, and the same old story. John Cavanagh dominates whatever competition the brass here at IIW want to throw his way. For those of you with a bit of a lapse in your memory—the last time the world was blessed to see the stars of IIW Mayhem live they were able to witness one of the greatest triumphs in not only the history of this company but the history of the sport that we call our profession.
John smiled for a moment and then chuckled at the thought that entered his head. He knew that there was an individual who would try to twist his words to paint a more positive picture of their own accomplishments at Red Alert.
And, no, before he gets ahead of himself…I ain’t talking about Jonny C finally getting his hands on the big one. Now, while it’s quite the shock I won’t be the one to dethrone Jake E. Dangerously, Jonny’s moment in the sun pales in comparison to the true story of Red Alert. The moment that referees hand struck the mat for a third time in the umpteenth battle in the story of Fred Debonair and Johnnie Cav—that was that historic moment that a promoter drools about in their dreams. Finally, once and for all, Johnnie Cav puts Fred Debonair to rest. And what’s more? It happened to be the International Championship match. Now, I’m not gonna go all Arn Anderson and “toot toot” but I am going to address the situation. As I said prior to Red Alert, Johnnie Cav was going to walk down to that ring International Champion and walk right back up that ramp the same exact way…and, as it was said, so it was done. See, contrary to the majority of the competition here in IIW, I can say that save for some asshole poking his nose into my business…I control the destiny of the matchups I’m placed into around these parts. I told Jake E. Dangerously he couldn’t hold my god damned jock strap and I dragged his ass from one side of the ring to the other. As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for Fred Debonair at Up in Smoke, this potato eater would have been pinning Jonny C’s shoulders to the mat at Red Alert. But, we can wait for another day on that…ain’t nothing I haven’t done before.
The Irishman ran his hand through his blonde hair, a mane that had been drenched in crimson that last time the IIW faithful saw him. He had healed up well, no appearance of the damage inflicted by his fellow gladiator, Fred Debonair. The wounds may have healed on his body, but the lessons learned from his career-long war with Fred Debonair…those are lessons that he would hold near and dear.
People like me, we’re a little different than the average Joe Blow walking around that locker room on Monday nights. I’m a generational talent, the type of wrestler that a promoter can build years and years of his company around. I look around and, well, just to be honest…I don’t see another person like Johnnie Cav sharing that locker room. I don’t see another soul in IIW that can hold a candle to my accomplishments…and that’s without me hoisting that World Championship above my head, but, this thing right here.
The International Champion glares downward towards the glistening IIW International Championship casually slung over his shoulder. The champion’s eye twinkles as he brings his face back to the camera.
This thing right here…this ten pounds of gold bound by leather? This is something that men have battered and beaten their bodies to obtain. This is something that little brats all around the world look at and dream of strapping around their waists. This is something that Johnnie Cav took from the current number one contender to the World Championship and let me inform all of you pions that weren’t around for it—I took his punk ass to school too. I guess you could almost call good old Johnnie Cav a professor of the mat because some of the “great talents” in this promotion couldn't hang with me and I succeeded in teaching each and every single one of them a lesson in the sport of professional wrestling! This championship belt right here? It says that there’s only one person in the IIW who can even contemplate claiming to be better than me, and the funny part? I’ve already beat that sorry sack of shit back in Canada…I’ll bide my time and let Jonny F’n C enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame. I’m sure Jonny and his annoying loudmouth will keep that championship nice and warm for me. He’s gotta be better than Fred’s kid because, from my recollection, Jonny put up more of a fight before succumbing to me last time we were in a ring together. But, ya know what, I’m getting a little too far ahead of myself…I should really be focusing on the here and now, on the present and the task at hand.
Hell’s Kitchen’s favorite son rubs his chin as his eyes widen. John’s face was overcome with a look of joy as the small smirk he had been sporting slowly grew to a full smile. He stuck his head up and took a deep breath.
Now, with all of that good shit being said–it's time for Johnnie Cav to make good on his stated promise of putting Freddy Boy in the rearview and focusing on the road ahead. So on to my newest opposition and I guess the powers that be have decided that Johnnie Cav needs a little bit more of a challenge. I guess putting The One Man Dynasty in a match with one wretched son of a bitch wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to lead the masses to what they wanted…watching good old Johnnie Cav crash and burn, live, in front of thousands of people and millions more watching from the comfort of their own homes. The people didn't get what they desired, the ticket holders didn't get what they paid their cold, hard cash for. See, every time this Irish bastard steps foot in between those ropes all everyone hopes to see is me get my ass kicked and, finally, someone pinning my shoulders to the mat. Unfortunately, that is a task much easier said than completed. So, what have the offices concocted for this edition of Monday Night Mayhem? What challenge have they placed at my feet? A triple threat match against Brandon Hendrix and Erick Elliot. Good for the IIW, they finally thought up a method of stacking the odds against me. Three people, that means I don't need to be pinned or submitted to lose this encounter. While the strap might not be on the line, it's almost as if it is. We all know damn well if one of these two nobodies can score a victory in a match that includes the International Champion they will all be beckoning for their opportunity to hold championship gold here in the IIW. Well, while these two no name schmucks have their wet dreams about their day in the Sun, Johnnie Cav is sitting patiently, awaiting the moment that bell rings. Awaiting yet another opportunity to make the people regret paying for their tickets and regret tuning into YouTube. Why? Because Johnnie Boy loves that shit. I love giving people that little bit of hope that this time is finally going to be the time that John Cavanagh gets what's coming to him. This match, this must be the one where Cav not only gets his ass kicked but finally gets bested by one of these pieces of shit in IIW. I love playing the spoiler…it's what I was born to do! So, Brandon and Erick, I hope youve both spent sufficient time cleaning the ear wax out of your ears so that you can hear this message loud and clear. This Monday Night, you both have your date with destiny, your date with greatness. You both finally have your day with the great John Cavanagh and the destiny? That destiny is to be the next footnote in my historic career. The next stepping stone towards that ultimate goal of the King of Kings hoisting the IIW World Championship high above his head. With that being said, I thank you two for participating in my journey to call myself the King of the Mountain around these parts. I said it the moment the ink dried on my contract and I will say it again–there is not one person in that locker room who is safe from my wrath, especially not the two boys who are going to try and make a name for themselves against the proverbial man. Brandon Hendrix and Erick Elliot….
Cavanagh shook his head at the thought of this match up. That last name, he knew he sounded familiar.
What is this that I’m going into exactly? A wrestling match or a Verzuz battle? We’ve got a member of the Flatbush Zombies coming to square off with Johnnie Cav? You’ve got to be shitting me, right? Is this IIW’s pathetic excuse at celebrity involvement? What was Bad Bunny too expensive? Tupac hologram too unbelievable for the dumb shits watching the product on YouTube? Sometimes I just can’t with this company. You’re all lucky Johnnie Cav is here to keep the seats packed or you’d be bouncing paychecks with the Riff Raff you let in here…and yes, that big pun intended. Look here man, I don’t go pick up a microphone and spit some fire bars to try and steal some of your limelight in your profession and had you been intelligent enough to reach out to a fellow New Yorker for advice—I would have advised you to not crossover. Hell, I get it, it’s all about the mighty dollar. Maybe we could have worked something out. As a resident of the same City, I’m all for improving the lives of fellow inner city youth. You nobodies could have, I don’t know, gave Trigger and Andy a new entrance theme. Do something useful rather than get your body all mangled inside of my booth. See, Johnnie Cav, he doesn’t drop it on wax, there’s no mics to be left smoking here…there’s just this big nasty son of a bitch inside of that ring with you. This hardened, battle tested ring general that rose from the streets of the same City you call home. This man who took the International Championship and has been holding it high above his head for half of a year. The man who should be and WILL be the future World Champion of this promotion. You? You’re some celebrity science experiment. You’re nothing more than a little click bait to bring in a few new fans. Hell, I’m sure I’ll be asked to take it a little easy on you as I’m walking past Gorilla…yeah, nah, ain’t happening. You may have found yourself some minor success in the recording industry but that minor success–that is your crowning achievement. You may think that you're special and an Indigo Child but let's kick the ballistics, all you're doing is trying to make an excuse for the people to get behind you. Feel bad for me, I was born with ADHD, have sympathy for me, it's difficult for me to pay attention…feel empathy for me, I'm just doing my best to fight against the odds. Let's be simple about this, nobody gives a shit about your mental deficiencies or, as you like to believe, superiorities. Nobody in this profession gives a rats ass about how many bars you can spit. You want to call yourself an architect? What is it exactly that has earned you that title? An architect is able to build something from the ground up, maybe you did that with your little hip hop group but you ain't done shit other than provide the IIW with an autograph they can put on eBay after your career as a wrestler flames out. See, I've had quite a few monikors bestowed upon me in my lengthy career as a professional wrestler. Upahts, Irish, the King of Kings, The One Man Dynasty…and each one has its own meaning, its own little ring, each one highlighting a different point in my own epic career. I didn't just wake up one day, say I'm going to pay money to be trained as a professional wrestler and dubbed myself The One Man Dynasty because it had a nice ring to it. Johnnie Cav enters a promotion and he does one thing…dominate. I see who I'm booked against, I analyze every strength and weakness they have, and then when that bell rings…I do my job and that job is to put on a clinic. Plenty have come before you Erick, more will come after you, and just like you…they all fall at the feet of this miserable bastard from the West Side of Manhattan. The Irishman took the International Championship and plopped it down on top of the bar. He looked down to the blunt he had been smoking but it had gone out in the ashtray. John shook his head slightly, showing a bit of displeasure.
Dammit, there I go again…running my mouth so long that I gotta re-light the damn thing. Oh well, I guess I can wait until I'm done talking about the Pop Smoke wannabe and little Brandon. Speaking of little Brandon, isn't that the same punk that tried to make it here and failed? Shit man, I thought that kid burnt too many bridges and wouldn't be let back here. Oh well, what the hell is the difference anyway? It ain't like his second stint in the IIW is going to be any more successful than the last one. Let me ask you point blank child, what the hell made you think that it would be different? What did your therapist talk you up to? Your mommy make you feel like if your feelings were hurt and you gotta go be a big boy and prove all those doubters wrong? I gotta know, Brandon, what in the blue hell possessed you to step back into my kingdom? What made Brandon Hendrix think that this was going to be the time that he would be able to topple superior talents like John Cavanagh? You may have reentered the world of the IIW thinking this time might be different, you may have came back with a bit of a chip on your shoulder as we are all well aware that you know have something to prove, but, unfortunately for you Brandon…one of your two opponents on Monday happen to be the most sadistic son of a bitch that has ever graced the IIW locker room. A man that has been fueled by recent injustices and years of rivalry to a point where he's a bit unbalanced. The hormone levels might not be at a stable level, but the brain that this ring general possesses…its just as dangerous as it ever has been. I already pummeled your counterpart's very existence into the ground so I guess now it's your turn. You probably think that you're better prepared for the challenge ahead of you after you took your little vacation to whatever piss ant promotion you've been competing in. You probably think now that wounds have healed you won't be fed to the wolves. Huh, funny, here we are and the man you have to defeat is none other than the God of IIW himself. Seems as if the powers that be wanted to see just how much Brandon Hendrix learned since he left. Seems as if the powers to be did exactly what you have probably been fearing…feed your bitch ass to the biggest, baddest wolf that the IIW has ever known. It's funny how you and Erick Elliot have so much in common, yet come from different backgrounds. Here is Erick, trying to participate in a second industry and yourself trying for a second turn in IIW but at least you call this sport your profession–there's a difference. Yet, the similarities are shocking. Two young punks who think they got this entire big, scary world figured out. Two people who are going to be walking into Monday Night Mayhem with the absolute highest of hopes. Two men who are going to be tested and both fail to receive a passing mark. Maybe you two mutts can form a tag team afterwards and go let Andy and Trig beat a little more sense into you once I'm through with youse.
John Cavanagh chuckled at the thought. Maybe that's what Andy and Trigger needed to begin with, more competition–they had been taking their training a bit lightly ever since the Debonairs failed to defeat them. I hope you two little punks are fully prepared for this Monday. Because if you haven’t caught the drift of what I’ve said yet let me make everything one hundred percent clear. This is the IIW. This is where John Cavanagh lays his hat. This is where The One Man Dynasty separates the boys from the men. This son of a bitch in front of the camera, he’s the bastard that every other wannabe in that locker room measures up to. And you two? You guys are lucky to hold those wannabe’s jock straps. Y’all got that golden ticket coming up and when you both cash it in—I’m gonna be standing there ready to collect your heads. I’m the one that takes the two of you and puts you in the appropriate spot on the proverbial totem pole. I’m the one that murders any chance of a push you’ve got—point blank, on site, double tap back of the god damned cabeza. But, I don’t know why I’m being so harsh on you boys. You guys are providing me with a wonderful opportunity. A wonderful opportunity to set yet another example for the rest of this locker room. An opportunity to show my next challenger just how bleak their future looks. An opportunity to lead two lambs out to slaughter. John tilted his head backwards as his chest began to move up and down as a deep, psychotic laugh began to overtake him. It took a few moments for him to begin to bring himself back but when he did his voice was more soft spoken than before. Two lambs to slaughter. This one might be a bloodbath, cause some real…Mayhem. I love seeing the blood of others—I can only hope the two of you combined can bring a challenge fierce enough to force me to shed again. Why? That’s when I know, that fight was worth a damn. It’s a pity really, I don’t see that happening from the both of you. Now, before I go on for the rest of eternity I’ll leave you two with this. As human beings, we all fail from time to time. We are, after all, inherently imperfect. Take this upcoming failure that you are both about to encounter and take notes. Take this as the greatest opportunity either of your pathetic careers have had. This Monday night, the both of you, get the rub of a lifetime…you get the honor of saying that you once shared the squared circle with the greatest to ever step foot between those ropes. Don’t believe me? That’s all good, I have no problem with showing you boys just how good Johnnie Cav is in millions of households around the world. I guess that means one thing…which one of you is good enough to avoid taking the pinfall. The International Champion smiled as he looked down at the ash tray once more. Let me get back to the only thing that is keeping me level-headed nowadays. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to lay off the bud on Monday. The last thing the world wants to see this Monday is a docile Johnnie Cav, what kind of fun would that be? John chuckled, he reached his hand down to the ashtray as the scene cut to static.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 16, 2022 0:14:16 GMT
Roleplay II: God made me great, so I am invisible to hate.
The streetlights of downtown Manchester dim the downtown alleys as a wet snow falls lightly. Erick walks down the street searching for somewhere to sit down, enjoy a drink, and study his upcoming matchup. It is evident that he has been walking for a while now as his black vest is damp from the snow melting and water droplets appearing visible on the end of his dreads that flow from the bottom of his grey Carhartt winter hat. He looks up at an old brick building with a mural of an older man smoking a cigarette. Just above the mural, he spots a sign “The Whiskey Jar” where the muffled sound of a band can be heard playing inside. The combination of the mural and music convinces Erick to proceed inside.
Erick approaches the entrance of the bar where the door is manned by two bouncers standing opposite of each other. They both nod at Erick as he enters. The smell of stale beer fills Erick’s senses as he scuffs his feet on a doormat drying his shoes. Directly in front of him, he can see the live band he heard playing outside in front of an old brick fireplace with strings of soft white lights hanging down from it. These lights are strung throughout the bar due, adding to the ambience of low lighting and the exposed wood beams in the ceiling. He makes his way to the bar, passing high top tables with a few people around them. Erick pulls out a high chair from the bar and hangs his vest on the back. He takes a seat and puts his damp hat down on the bar. He places his elbows on the bar and locks his fingers together, browsing the massive display of alcohol on shelves that line the wall.
Bartender // What can I get ya, mate?
Erick hums and huh’s, overwhelmed by the selection displayed behind the bar.
Erick Elliott // How about you get me your finest whiskey on the rocks, please?
Bartender // Coming right up!
As the bartender prepares his drink, Erick gets out his phone and sees a concerning text from his girlfriend, Alyssa.
Erick shakes his head, and raises his eyebrows to what he just read. The bartender return with a small glass of whiskey, the ice rattles as Erick picks it up and rolls the ice around and takes in the aroma of the aged whiskey. He takes a small sip and smacks his lips, impressed with the drink. He places his phone on the bar and turns it sideways so a video fills the screen. He places a pair of airpods in his ears and begins watching videos of his opponents, John Cavanagh and Brandon Hendrix trying to study their movement, technique and energy.
Heavily focused into the videos as part of his indigo traits, he feels a presence next to him in an environment he has completely displaced. Erick tries to ignore this presence but a voice speaks up and breaks his concentration.
Stranger // Oi!
Erick takes out his airpods and looks over to his right, not moving his arms off the bar. Standing next to him, a man, leaving against the bar facing Erick. His gold watch reflects the light as he calls the bartender for a drink. Erick continues to size up the man, he gets a gut feeling about the situation since the strange is dressed similar to some British mobster. Wearing a brown leather jacket, black turtleneck both tight to his rather muscular body and a buzz cut with a slight stubble to match. His large hands cover almost the entirety of the glass as he takes a drink. He sucks his tooth and looks over to Erick. Stranger // Didn’t I just see you on the telly?
Erick nods his head, smiling to the fact he has already been recognized. Erick Elliott // Yessir you quite possibly have. I had an interview recently for the IIW for my debut match.
The man snaps his finger and points. Stranger // That’s right! You did the interview with that piss bag of an interviewer. You can’t even look at the man without him pissing his bridges.
Erick laughs nodding his head.
Erick Elliott // Yeah, yeah that’s right! Home was definitely quite the character for sure.
The stranger laughs along. Stranger // No kidding, but I think he was just the interviewer for you!
Erick laugh turns into confusion. Erick Elliott // And what do you exactly mean by that?
Stranger // Well, you claimed to be some sort of child of god. All it sounded like to me was that you were never properly medicated and now you believe you got some sort of….superpowers? To be honest, you just sound like a wanker to me.
Erick shakes his head smiling. He takes another sip from his drink. He closes his eyes briefly, picturing how this situations is about to unfold. He then looks back at the man. Erick Elliott // Is that so? And what have you accomplished, or better yet, who even are you to think you are a higher power to judge me? You literally look like you go door to door selling bibles. If only you able to capability to create what I can.
The stranger starts to become visibly angry, pointing his finger at Erick. Stranger // Eh now. You better shut your trap before I shut it for you! Better yet, the men you’re up against will have no problem doing that. Snap you like the twig you are. Because that’s what they are, MEN! Not some lanky, spiritual freak.
Erick pushes out his stool and stands toe to toe with the man, looking down at him, as he is slightly taller. Erick Elliott // How about I give you a little preview of what this “lanky, spiritual freak” is capable of?
The stranger smirks and nods his head. Silence falls over the bar. A bystander from the crowd approaches closer and begins recording on their phone. The stranger looks over Erick’s shoulder and lets out a quick whistle. Another man approaches and stands behind Erick. He looks over his shoulder and uses his peripheral vision to quickly size up the man behind him. He is almost identical to the stranger in front of Erick. Erick Elliott // Oh, so it really gunna be like that, huh? You talking a lot of shit for someone who need their boyfriend to back them up.
The stranger smiles, flashing his silver plated front tooth. Stranger // Well, I figured we could make it close as possible to your little “debut” match. So how about it?
Erick nods his head, running his tongue across the top of his teeth and quickly turns his elbow, hitting the face of the man behind him. Knocking him back while holding his face. Erick uses this opportunity to square up with the stranger in front. Erick focuses on his body movement, waiting for him to make a move to he can determine his tempo. The stranger jabs left and haymaker’s right. Erick dodges both attacks, now he waits for the final swing. The stranger charges and Erick ducks underneath him, going to the other side. The stranger turns back towards Erick. Erick kicks the stranger in the gut taking the breath from the strange as he hunches over holding on to his stomach. Erick uses this leverage and puts the stranger in a firemen’s carry across his shoulders and throws him down on a table nearby, destroying it.
Women standing by the table scream and run off panicked. Erick stands over the stranger, looking down at him as he rolls around grunting. A glass bottle bursts into pieces over the back of Erick’s head. Erick’s face shows pain as he holds the back of his head and turns around to see a bloody nose man he elbowed. The man takes a swing at Erick and connect. Erick tries to regain focus from the two hard blows. He regains his balance and sees the man grabbing for him. Erick sticks his arm out and the pull grabs on to the lose part of his baggy white sweater. Erick pulls against the man and slips out of his sweater. As both of them hold on to opposite ends of the sweater, Erick starts twisting the sweater, locking the arm of the man and pulls it tight. With the man’s arm hyper extended, Erick kicks the arm several times. The man shouts in pain and Erick lets go of the sweater. The man falls to his knee, holding his arm in pain, surely broken. The man looks up at Erick, who is waving HELLO in his face. One of his signature moves, he finishes and buzzsaw kicks the man. He wobbles around before falling face first into the ground.
Erick looks down at the stranger rolling on the broken pieces of the tables and then looks at the man lying face first on the floor. He looks up and notices the bystander who was recording on his phone is front and center with Erick. Erick looks at the phone, catching his breath; he wipes away a little drip of blood from his mouth. Erick Elliott // Yo bro, if you’re still filming, make sure you still are. I got something I want you to share to the world.
The bystander steps up closer to Erick with their phone.
Erick Elliott // I hope this a clear picture to everyone for what is to come on Mayhem. Which is exactly what happened here…Mayhem. I figured I would make use of this perfect opportunity to address both Mr. Cavanagh and Mr. Hendrix since you both finally decided to come out of your shell.
Erick looks down at his feet and sees the stranger, which started this situation, at his feet, attempting to get up Erick stomps him back down to the ground. Erick Elliot // Now, let’s just address the elephant out there in the virtual world, Mr. Brandon Hendrix. I should of known you would spin what I said to be sexist. I mean, I would too after getting my ass cheeks clapped but someone literally half your size. You clearly don’t know how to your strengths against others weaknesses because there is no reason why you could of just laid your gorilla ass on top of her and pinned her on the spot because I highly doubt she can bench press over 200 pounds. But no! Instead, you deflect your embarrassing loss and want to be a hero calling everyone “superstars”. Bro that shit is cringe as FUCK! Especially since there is no “superstar” trait about you. Well… I guess you did play middle school basketball and high school football. I guess I should of added “Second place in elementary spelling bee competition” on my contract.
Erick runs his index finger and thumb across his chin.
Erick Elliott // You know, Brandon. You say we were the same when you first stated here. However, listen back to everything you said. You WERE a basketball player in middle school, you WERE a football player in high, you WERE a wrestling champion and you WERE First Class General Manager. What message does this send? To me, since I can analyze things like most people can’t, you’re just a wash up. So what are you now? Nothing. Im surprised the IIW would even hand you a contract. But you could just be a pawn in their game. Used to help others advance in their careers while you sit back and cry about your losses over and over again. You and I are nothing alike because there is a difference to thinking you ARE god and being a PRODUCT of god. I know how to use my strength and weakness, I know when to cut myself loose and apply myself to things that unfree my mind and do things no one else can think of. Sure, you can go ahead and maybe the fans will cheer for you while you fall and maybe you can even turn them against me. It doesn’t matter, because God made me great, so I am invisible to hate.
As Erick finishes his rant, a bar staff walks by with a tray of drinks. Erick snatches a beer from the tray as the bar staff passes by. She gives a look of a disgust towards, Erick and continues on. Erick takes a quick swig of the beer and leans against the bar.
Erick Elliott // And now, from the slums of Hells Kitchen, we finally have the International Champion himself.
Erick gestures his hand to mock John Cavanagh talking. Erick Elliott // Man, I can’t count how many times you lost me during that exasperated ranted. Every time I think you about to finish, you just kept going and going and going. I think you might want to check what's in your bud homie, because I think it might have been laced with something else with all the crazy shit you were saying. You were wondering why they call me an architect? You explained it yourself bro. I build things from the ground up and you ask what have I done? Homie, this is literally my DEBUT match you clown. Why do you think they would put me up against an IIW International Champion? So I get that strong foundation to build on, like you said. No one is here to see you anymore. You talk about how you're going to get your shot for the World Title, but what you’re ass is too stoned to realize is that you will never get it. If you haven’t got it by now, then when? The IIW is just waiting for you to lose your title so we can clean up these has beens and give it to some real talent while you smoke your crack bud in your greasy ass bar in the slums of New York. I thought I respected you homie, but you wanna call my gift from a god a cry for sympathy? What is there to respect? I thank god for giving me this opportunity to show the IIW that this organization is in need for some real talent change. Calling me a celebrity? That’s shit cute, you gunna make me blush. Soon you'll be calling a celebrity and a superstar. So keep your eyes peeled in that ring, because I’m not going to be gunning for the big cry baby Hendrix, Ill be pinning your Irish ass to the mat. If I were you, Id have your Celtic Boys Club close by. You might just up like these goons on the floor beside me now.
Erick takes his beers and bumps it into the camera of the phone as a “cheers” gesture. He walks past the crowd and gives the bar staff he took the beer from a large amount of cash that certainly pays for more than the beer and Erick exits the bar. End Roleplay
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Post by The Celtic Club on Jan 16, 2022 23:01:12 GMT
The scene opened to the inside of a hotel room. One large king size bed sprawled in the center of the suite, the water from a shower can be heard running in the background. A plop is heard as a black travel bag finds itself thumping against the wooden desk in the corner of the suite. John Cavanagh’s hands begin to unzip the bag, he begins to speak without looking at the camera.
Finally checked in. I gotta tell youse, these cross Atlantic flights are a little ridiculous. It's time these Brits start to realize that the true epicenter of the professional wrestling world is in the United States and Mecca just happens to be the same city I call home. Maybe I can help these mutts get a decent deal on renting the Garden…take a nice shot at one of the competitors.
John chuckled to himself, his shoulders moving up and down. He completed unzipping his bag as he turned only his head slightly towards the camera so we can see a slight side profile.
Maybe the boys should think about letting the professional wrestling version of The Beatles have a tour of the greatest Anglo-country the world has ever known. But enough about all of that, I sure as hell don’t need the cheap heat with the Manchester faithful. I’ve got bigger fish to fry before Shannon gets out of the shower. I’ve got this little triple threat sideshow about to go down tomorrow night and I’m sure the pathetic Internet fans that have their notifications set on YouTube for the IIW channel would love to hear Johnnie Cav’s thoughts on this match one last time before Mayhem.
The Irishman’s body whipped to face the camera as his hand inside of the bag produces the IIW International Championship that he holds from his right hand.
Let me begin with the first of my opponents, my New Generation version of Master P and the No Limit Soldiers, Erick Elliot. The man who already, without ever having as much as a single match inside of the squared circle, has our entire profession figured out. This man can be quoted as saying all we do is “scream” and “throw” our “hands around, hoping they land”. Jesus Christ, man, I guess you might as well just waltz your punk ass down to the offices in Manchester and demand you be moved to a World Championship match. That’s how confident you are in yourself, huh? That’s the type of human being you are? You’re the same as the six hundred pound obese piece of shit watching an NFL game thinking the running back is a slow piece of shit. You’ve got a sideline view of our sport and I can’t wait to be the son of a bitch to introduce you to it. I can feel the enjoyment right now…right hand, left hand, kicks, chops, spine busters, suplexes, powerbombs, you name it…I got you a full course meal. The rude awakening that awaits our Flatbush Zombie is truly going to be a site to behold for any fan of this sport. No, this won’t be Lawrence Taylor pinning Bam Bam Bigelow’s shoulders to the mat. This won’t be some awkwardly successful science experiment to appeal to a larger mainstream audience. I’ve seen the neighborhood I love slowly gentrify in front of my face and while I could give two shits less about the fans that buy our merchandise and tickets, and could care even less about the boys in the back—I will NOT watch the sport that I call my profession become lowered to a Disney level cartoon version of itself that you might find in other companies.
Cavanagh pops his championship gold up from his hand to sling over his right shoulder. He begins to walk away from the desk and towards the double glass doors. He slides one open, as the winter chill of Manchester enters the room, steam begins to exit with each word from John’s mouth.
See, that’s where you come Erick. You are everything I despise about this industry. The celebrity endorsements for a cheap rating pop, I’m sure IIW will put you in their next line of action figures because all of the collecting nuts and your bullshit fans will rush to the stores and buy them. All of this while some poor schmuck who’s currently busting his ass gets left out of the royalty money because some half-assed rapper decided to stop by for a quick cup of tea. A cup of tea that will be no more than a wrestling version of a shitty September call up only to never be heard from again. I have bled and caused others to bleed time and time again inside of those ropes, I’ve injured myself and destroyed the limbs of opponents, I’ve suffered unthinkable highs and crushing lows on THAT mat. I was once a lost soul and in many ways I still am. I once considered this a secondary line of income to let out steam and while I was more successful than you can ever dream to be—the last time I lost my freedom, the world seemed so clear. I may or may not be that same potato eater from the Kitchen but Johnnie Cav’s primary profession is a wrestler regardless of any side hustles the mick may or may not have. You’re collecting an extra check and trying to get a little extra fame, hell your dumb ass agent probably worked your position in this match into your contract thinking it would get a billion hits on YouTube. Well, I guess between a hip hop “star” and a legend of professional wrestling—this one just might go viral after all. Paid some video of this match up with some Chapelle’s Show…”When keeping it real goes wrong…” cut to a nice image of you screaming in pain with the crimson mask forming over your face as the look of regret turns to the anguishing look of a man who knows he’s never felt this much pain before.
The One Man Dynasty takes a deep breath followed by an exhale, almost as if he enjoyed the frigid weather of the British Isles in January–maybe it was his genetic predisposition with his ancestors coming from the neighboring island.
You may feel I’m hating on you but the fact of the matter is, you called out Brandon Hendrix for being pinned in the ropes by a woman before you’ve even had a match. You’d be lucky to defeat that “diva” yourself and I’m sure if I let that dip shit Hendrix alone with you in the ring…you’d even struggle to hold your own with him. You were “born different”? Congrats Indigo Child, we were all “born different”. You want to claim you’ve untapped some deep cognitive abilities like you’re some master of the world, feel free, maybe that shit flies with the weak minded. Maybe that's your little mind trick that you’re trying to employ. Erick Elliot, the rookie, thinking that he can play mind games with John Cavanagh? I feel comfortable stating I have exactly zero friends in that locker room outside of The Celtic Club but every one of those bastards in the back will tell you right now…you ain’t beating me in anything related to my sport, especially mind games.
The blonde haired champion shook his head back and forth. It was difficult for him to understand how such a novice competitor could think this was going to be such a walk in the park. Thousands of premiere athletes had failed to convert their athletic ability to success in a wrestling ring and yet here was a performer thinking it would be natural.
Let's not start to run out of steam before I move on to the other third of this triple threat match. The man that has already had his day in the Sun in IIW and, to my knowledge, wasn’t exactly everyone’s favorite locker room mate. Brandon seems as if he already gave this place a chance, failed to succeed, got a little upset when he realized he wasn’t cut out to hang with the big dogs and then left. He saw what other measly pay days were left out there and thought that “hey, I might not be anybody special in IIW but at least I’ll get paid decently.” I can’t knock the hustle kid, we all have bills to pay so I’m glad that intelligent logic won out in your putrid little rain. This Monday Night Mayhem though, you’re just like our Lil Luchador, someone management put in the ring with me to teach a lesson to. The people around here know that all the average wrestling fan really wants to see is someone or a couple of someones get their asses handed to them inside of those ropes. They figure, Johnnie Cav can knock some sense into someone who doesn’t belong in our profession and teach a lesson in manners to someone who has been welcomed back into the locker room.
The leader of The Celtic Club smiled, he loved to dish out a good ass kicking and the thought that he was the man hand selected to teach not one but two competitors the same lesson in humility in the same match…he knew, in his own sadistic way, he was going to enjoy this.
That’s one hundred percent correct, Brandon, I’m saying the powers that be put you into this match for one reason and one reason only. And no, contrary to whatever irrational thoughts may course through the neurons on your brain…it’s not that they think you can play at the big boy’s end of the swimming pool. It's so that with every chop, every closed fist strike, each time I pick you up and drop you on your head…you begin to let the reality of this industry set in. There are levels to this shit and, little boy, you just ain’t up to par yet. Let that sit, let that fester in your infantile cerebrum. You can say you were off letting your demons control you, failing at being some sort of Messiah, saying you’ve learned from the errors of your ways but the fact of the matter remains—that’s just all a bunch of bullshit spewing out of your mouth. I came from Hell’s Kitchen, I fought my way through the streets and prisons of New York, add in stops in some of the fiercest promotions this business has to offer and you’ve got someone who you’re just not going to be able to bullshit, Brandon! Now you may think you learned from your past but I can tell you right now that you didn’t learn shit. You may play the righteous changed man but after you get taken down a few pegs by me this Monday night you’ll probably be screaming foul play in some way. Claiming the only reason you didn’t win was because it was a triple threat and I decided to teach Erick more of a lesson than you. That, in the end, may just happen to be your saving grace. I want to pummel that fool so unmercifully that you may actually be spared quite a bit of pain and an equal amount of embarrassment.
John sucked his front teeth, an obnoxious habit but something he often did when he was getting to his wits end with someone or something. He was getting sick of something, how long each minute took…he just wanted Mayhem to get here so that he could walk down to that ring and hurt Brandon Hendrix and Erick Elliot.
As you said yourself, the fact that I’m the International Champion just goes to prove that I am one of the best the IIW has to offer…at least you’re intelligent enough to grasp that. Unfortunately for you, you aren’t intelligent enough to realize the absurdity in you claiming to want to represent this company. Why would this company want you to represent them in the first place? Don’t take that the wrong way, I ain’t the one…I ain’t no poster boy…but you’re nothing more than a space filler on the card. The guy that some of the fans like to see so they make sure to book you each show. Whether you win or lose, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, you’ve never been a World Champion and as long as you’re in the IIW with Johnnie Cav…you won’t ever be a World Champion! You can try to use Monday Night Mayhem as a platform to try and prove your worth to the masses but in the end it will be just another failed attempt in an IIW ring by Brandon Hendrix.
Cavanagh took a step backwards as he heard the water from the shower stop, he shut the sliding glass doors.
Well, if you’ll excuse me, boys. It’s time for Johnnie Cav to enjoy this night in Manchester as much as possible before I host a clinic with you two tomorrow night. For me, Mayhem can’t come soon enough.
The scene cuts to static.
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