07-13-2014, 09:03 PM
"It's not...”
“It's not even..."
Flynn leans back in his chair and sighs, his elbow compressing his hand towards his shoulder...
"It's not even Tuesday, Jay?"
"It's not even TUESDAY, John-John?"
Flynn's right hand weaves into his hair, his fingers working to calm his nerves, massaging, pressing circles into his temple....
"John."
Flynn's eyes shoot open.
"Do you think I picked you as a tag team partner because of your winning personality? Do you think you got the job because of your radiant smile? Or how great you were in the interview? Or maybe the kick I'd get out of a current XWF title holder being a sex offender?"
Flynn leans into the camera, his fingers curling slowly into his fist, which his chin rests upon.
"I picked you as my second, going after the tag title belts, because I saw in you a kindred spirit. A brother in arms. I saw in you someone else that was tired of getting fucked over. I saw in your anger, in your frustration with the system that same desire I have... To overthrow this whole fucking world. To take all the senseless hate, the constant stream of bullshit and ignorance we get from these mouth breathers and shove it right back down their fucking throats. These tasteless fucks all yell over each other, scream what they deserve and demand their ‘rightful place’ at the front of the line. As visible in your fucking speech where you throw down the gauntlet to Madison and these happy-go-lucky fucks hijack it to make it about a match between Tommy Gunn and Peter Gilmour.”
“That’s what this system is about, John. Not being better than the guy who came before you, but being louder than the guy who spoke up first. That’s what we’re fighting against. That’s what we’re trying to kill.”
“…”
“Do you think we’re going to make it happen by fucking chance? By putting in the bare minimum? By sitting on the couch eating potato chips and butter until deadline, then half-assing something together at the last minute?”
“You don’t need to tell me that it’ll be a cake walk taking on Bobby Zi and ‘Anarchist’ Aaron Andrews this week. I know it, bud.”
“Problem is.”
“We aren’t taking on Bobby Zi and ‘Anarchist’ Aaron Andrews this week. If they put two people across the ring from us next week, we’re not taking them on either. Every week until we get the title shot we’ve earned? And that week especially?”
“We’re taking on Peter Gilmour and the Dimallisher. We’re taking on Johnny Madison. We’re taking on the personified establishment designed to hold us down. We’re leaving everything we have in the ring, pushing the god damned limit every fucking chance we get, every week they let us. We’re not pacing ourselves to get to some finish line, we’re running ourselves empty on hate every night. We’re not looking to survive to tomorrow, we’re looking to destroy today.”
“We’re ascending above the bullshit that lines this fucking organization from top to bottom. We’re setting out to be undeniably the best that this place has to offer. To bludgeon our opponents’ unconscious with their own low expectations. Every. Fucking. Week.”
“So don’t you dare fucking tell me it’s not Tuesday yet, John. Until those tag title belts are around our waist? Until we’re looking back on a trail of bones, blood and victories? Until XWF releases ‘Undeniable: The Mark Flynn & John Black Story’? Every day is Tuesday. Every day is our last chance. Every time we fail, the boys running this circus have another reason to tell us ‘no’. Every time we come up short, that’s another chance for another Tommy Gunn, another Crimson Dong, to step ahead of us in line.”
Flynn points his finger to the camera, saliva out his mouth as liquid hate spews out of his mouth.
“Silence won’t cut it, Johnny. Not on this mission.”
Flynn pauses… Scratches his neck. His eyes narrow.
“That said. What you did say? What you chose to bring to the table after I called you out?”
Flynn nods as a smile spreads across his face.
“Well done. Top notch. Thanks for breaking the silence, kiddo. Now, watch the master take this one home.”
Flynn takes a deep breath…. And shoots up standing. His chair slams back into the concrete floor, the wood echoing as far as it can…
“Bob.”
“Roberto.”
“Mr. Zi.”
“I’m really sorry that I have to keep quoting you. That I have to keep playing the dumb bullshit that comes out of your mouth back to you. But I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing I can do to help you understand how fucked you are. Last time I dropped a promo, I went into how stupid, how uneducated you were about distant XWF history and the over-zealous rookies like you that I’ve crushed into powder and blown into the wind never to be seen again. I thought you were a punk kid that was in way over his head.”
“Now, I’m forced to acknowledge just how wrong I was. You’re not some stupid punk. Not at all.”
Flynn shakes his head back and forth.
“You’re lower than that."
"You’re a goddamned special needs kid that stumbled into an XWF contract.”
“Sure, you didn’t bother looking into XWF history from before your debut. I can accept that.”
“But it doesn’t seem you can bother to remember your own god damned matches either. The matches that you fucking lived and went through and underwhelmed audiences during. Just can’t remember them. Totally gone a week after they’ve happened. Short attention span. Like a goldfish or an amoeba."
"That’s mentally what you’re bringing to the table.”
“Bobby. I’m so sorry that you have to find out this way. But I did beat you. I beat you badly. I beat you embarrassingly. You walked into Leap of Faith the X-Treme Champion. I walked out of it the X-Treme Champion. Six men got eliminated from that match. You went out third. I went out with the belt.”
“I'm... I'm sorry. Maybe this is too high-level for you... Let me break this one down for you. And I’ll try to use small words so you can keep up conceptually.”
Flynn covers his mouth, eyebrows raised, as if he just misspoke.
“Oh, sorry, Bob-bo. Conceptually means ‘with your brain.’”
Flynn clears his throat, bringing his fist sideways to his face...
“Ahem. Now.”
“I walked out the X-Treme Champion. That’s First Place. Gold medal.”
“Then, there’s Michael McBride. He’s disappeared since the match, nowhere to be found, probably lying in a hospital bed with a broken neck. That I gave him. He got Second Place. Silver Medal.”
“Then, my old pal NAZI. Also, disappeared. Third place. Bronze medal.”
“Then, John Austin. Didn’t disappear but I'm pretty sure he hasn’t won a match in months. Fourth Place. Honorable Mention.”
“And then there’s you Bobby. You got thrown out in the first three minutes of the match. Fifth Place. The Equivalent of a Participation Ribbon.”
“Thanks for showing up. Hope you enjoyed your three day title reign.That's how the big the gap is between the two of us, Bobby. One of us is the Best in the World. The other just keeps showing up."
"And again, because you've failed every comprehension test thus far, I'll go ahead and spoil who's who for you. The guy who actually walked out with the belt? Is the winner."
"Notice that even though you stole the title? Even though I'm letting you temporarily borrow it?"
"No one's started ambushing you. These people know who's going to end up with the belt after Madness."
"I know you're used to getting a first place ribbon for just doing you're best? But this isn't the Special Olympics, Bob."
Flynn shakes his head again.
“Bob, one time, a clown woman bit my dick off on XWF programming.”
“Believe me, getting assaulted with a steel folding chair by a coward who talks like he’s constantly got a load of marbles in his mouth is not the most humiliated I’ve ever been. That was nowhere near the most shameful thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Alternatively, your apparent speech impediment that comes out whenever you deliver a promo makes your intelligence pretty apparent, huh, Bob? Hard to disguise that kind of stupid.”
“Bob. The past? I have you locked down. My record against you? One win, Zero Losses.”
“You? 1-time X-Treme Champion. Me? 4-Time X-Treme Champion.”
“And if it doesn’t matter… If the past doesn’t play a factor. If you’re actually too stupid to connect the dots on how fucked you are when comparing accomplishments…”
A devilish smile crosses Flynn’s face…
"Then let's go into the future."
"Let's discuss what happens on Madness. The clock is ticking. You having to get in the ring and back up the stupid shit you've been spewing out of your mouth is drawing ever nearer."
Flynn starts edging slowly towards the camera... Creeping forward....Stalking... Turning his head to the head, his tongue circling around his lips, tasting the air itself...
“You’re tired… You’re running on empty…”
“Just like this week, you haven’t been able to set the pace… You haven’t been able to get a single move of your own in…”
“All you’ve been able to do is try desperately to keep up… Responding as your opponents maintain total control of the match… Keep the energy going as you’re slowly outpaced… As you feel yourself being overcome on all sides… Helpless against your superior opponents…”
“Unlike this week, though, where you’ve been a hopeless wreck from start to finish… Clueless as you are out-classed… For a split second… For just half of a split fucking second…”
“You see an opening… Just a trickle of light for you to try and squeeze through… You have a chance… You leap for your opponent’s neck… Going for that ridiculous ‘Dream Catcher’ maneuver…”
“All you have to do is fall backwards and take the p-“
SNAP! The clack echoes… Flynn’s fist sits eager as he stops… Just in front of the camera… His smile is gone.
“Twist torso forward to block your momentum. Grab opponent’s left leg and lift… Fall backwards into a samoan drop… Tilting neck back at 9 degrees so opponent lands on the edge of his hip… Grounding him…”
“Trap arm. Twist up 120 degrees from ground. Start jacking back and forth until shoulder dislocates. Repeat as necessary with opposite arm… Until opponent is crippled for life…”
His eyes close, his mind’s eye imagining the systematic destruction, the step-by-step countering of Zi’s finishing maneuver, and subsequent evisceration…
“Bobby…”
“If there’s one thing I’m going to enjoy about this coming Madness.”
“It’ll be giving you a taste of your own medicine… Taking back my belt…”
Flynn surges forward… the only thing visible to the camera… His face… Twisted into a disgusting black grin…
“And crushing your dreams…”
“It's not even..."
Flynn leans back in his chair and sighs, his elbow compressing his hand towards his shoulder...
"It's not even Tuesday, Jay?"
"It's not even TUESDAY, John-John?"
Flynn's right hand weaves into his hair, his fingers working to calm his nerves, massaging, pressing circles into his temple....
"John."
Flynn's eyes shoot open.
"Do you think I picked you as a tag team partner because of your winning personality? Do you think you got the job because of your radiant smile? Or how great you were in the interview? Or maybe the kick I'd get out of a current XWF title holder being a sex offender?"
Flynn leans into the camera, his fingers curling slowly into his fist, which his chin rests upon.
"I picked you as my second, going after the tag title belts, because I saw in you a kindred spirit. A brother in arms. I saw in you someone else that was tired of getting fucked over. I saw in your anger, in your frustration with the system that same desire I have... To overthrow this whole fucking world. To take all the senseless hate, the constant stream of bullshit and ignorance we get from these mouth breathers and shove it right back down their fucking throats. These tasteless fucks all yell over each other, scream what they deserve and demand their ‘rightful place’ at the front of the line. As visible in your fucking speech where you throw down the gauntlet to Madison and these happy-go-lucky fucks hijack it to make it about a match between Tommy Gunn and Peter Gilmour.”
“That’s what this system is about, John. Not being better than the guy who came before you, but being louder than the guy who spoke up first. That’s what we’re fighting against. That’s what we’re trying to kill.”
“…”
“Do you think we’re going to make it happen by fucking chance? By putting in the bare minimum? By sitting on the couch eating potato chips and butter until deadline, then half-assing something together at the last minute?”
“You don’t need to tell me that it’ll be a cake walk taking on Bobby Zi and ‘Anarchist’ Aaron Andrews this week. I know it, bud.”
“Problem is.”
“We aren’t taking on Bobby Zi and ‘Anarchist’ Aaron Andrews this week. If they put two people across the ring from us next week, we’re not taking them on either. Every week until we get the title shot we’ve earned? And that week especially?”
“We’re taking on Peter Gilmour and the Dimallisher. We’re taking on Johnny Madison. We’re taking on the personified establishment designed to hold us down. We’re leaving everything we have in the ring, pushing the god damned limit every fucking chance we get, every week they let us. We’re not pacing ourselves to get to some finish line, we’re running ourselves empty on hate every night. We’re not looking to survive to tomorrow, we’re looking to destroy today.”
“We’re ascending above the bullshit that lines this fucking organization from top to bottom. We’re setting out to be undeniably the best that this place has to offer. To bludgeon our opponents’ unconscious with their own low expectations. Every. Fucking. Week.”
“So don’t you dare fucking tell me it’s not Tuesday yet, John. Until those tag title belts are around our waist? Until we’re looking back on a trail of bones, blood and victories? Until XWF releases ‘Undeniable: The Mark Flynn & John Black Story’? Every day is Tuesday. Every day is our last chance. Every time we fail, the boys running this circus have another reason to tell us ‘no’. Every time we come up short, that’s another chance for another Tommy Gunn, another Crimson Dong, to step ahead of us in line.”
Flynn points his finger to the camera, saliva out his mouth as liquid hate spews out of his mouth.
“Silence won’t cut it, Johnny. Not on this mission.”
Flynn pauses… Scratches his neck. His eyes narrow.
“That said. What you did say? What you chose to bring to the table after I called you out?”
Flynn nods as a smile spreads across his face.
“Well done. Top notch. Thanks for breaking the silence, kiddo. Now, watch the master take this one home.”
Flynn takes a deep breath…. And shoots up standing. His chair slams back into the concrete floor, the wood echoing as far as it can…
“Bob.”
“Roberto.”
“Mr. Zi.”
Quote: “Oh! Hi there, flynn.
“I’m really sorry that I have to keep quoting you. That I have to keep playing the dumb bullshit that comes out of your mouth back to you. But I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing I can do to help you understand how fucked you are. Last time I dropped a promo, I went into how stupid, how uneducated you were about distant XWF history and the over-zealous rookies like you that I’ve crushed into powder and blown into the wind never to be seen again. I thought you were a punk kid that was in way over his head.”
“Now, I’m forced to acknowledge just how wrong I was. You’re not some stupid punk. Not at all.”
Flynn shakes his head back and forth.
“You’re lower than that."
"You’re a goddamned special needs kid that stumbled into an XWF contract.”
“Sure, you didn’t bother looking into XWF history from before your debut. I can accept that.”
“But it doesn’t seem you can bother to remember your own god damned matches either. The matches that you fucking lived and went through and underwhelmed audiences during. Just can’t remember them. Totally gone a week after they’ve happened. Short attention span. Like a goldfish or an amoeba."
"That’s mentally what you’re bringing to the table.”
Quote:”What pisses you off more, flynn? The fact that I say that you can't beat me, or the fact that it is trUe?.. ‘’
“Bobby. I’m so sorry that you have to find out this way. But I did beat you. I beat you badly. I beat you embarrassingly. You walked into Leap of Faith the X-Treme Champion. I walked out of it the X-Treme Champion. Six men got eliminated from that match. You went out third. I went out with the belt.”
“I'm... I'm sorry. Maybe this is too high-level for you... Let me break this one down for you. And I’ll try to use small words so you can keep up conceptually.”
Flynn covers his mouth, eyebrows raised, as if he just misspoke.
“Oh, sorry, Bob-bo. Conceptually means ‘with your brain.’”
Flynn clears his throat, bringing his fist sideways to his face...
“Ahem. Now.”
“I walked out the X-Treme Champion. That’s First Place. Gold medal.”
“Then, there’s Michael McBride. He’s disappeared since the match, nowhere to be found, probably lying in a hospital bed with a broken neck. That I gave him. He got Second Place. Silver Medal.”
“Then, my old pal NAZI. Also, disappeared. Third place. Bronze medal.”
“Then, John Austin. Didn’t disappear but I'm pretty sure he hasn’t won a match in months. Fourth Place. Honorable Mention.”
“And then there’s you Bobby. You got thrown out in the first three minutes of the match. Fifth Place. The Equivalent of a Participation Ribbon.”
“Thanks for showing up. Hope you enjoyed your three day title reign.That's how the big the gap is between the two of us, Bobby. One of us is the Best in the World. The other just keeps showing up."
"And again, because you've failed every comprehension test thus far, I'll go ahead and spoil who's who for you. The guy who actually walked out with the belt? Is the winner."
"Notice that even though you stole the title? Even though I'm letting you temporarily borrow it?"
"No one's started ambushing you. These people know who's going to end up with the belt after Madness."
"I know you're used to getting a first place ribbon for just doing you're best? But this isn't the Special Olympics, Bob."
Quote: not the first time you get beaten Up but the thing is you never get humiliated like the way i torn you up bro-ther nObody in the whole company with x-treme championship be like that, see , a brokened... blodied, nearly died body screaming for help ... that is shamefull isnt it ...? "
Flynn shakes his head again.
“Bob, one time, a clown woman bit my dick off on XWF programming.”
“Believe me, getting assaulted with a steel folding chair by a coward who talks like he’s constantly got a load of marbles in his mouth is not the most humiliated I’ve ever been. That was nowhere near the most shameful thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Quote: ‘’..for you to even think that our past does count, shows that you are far stupider than your promos make you seem...‘’
“Alternatively, your apparent speech impediment that comes out whenever you deliver a promo makes your intelligence pretty apparent, huh, Bob? Hard to disguise that kind of stupid.”
“Bob. The past? I have you locked down. My record against you? One win, Zero Losses.”
“You? 1-time X-Treme Champion. Me? 4-Time X-Treme Champion.”
“And if it doesn’t matter… If the past doesn’t play a factor. If you’re actually too stupid to connect the dots on how fucked you are when comparing accomplishments…”
A devilish smile crosses Flynn’s face…
"Then let's go into the future."
"Let's discuss what happens on Madness. The clock is ticking. You having to get in the ring and back up the stupid shit you've been spewing out of your mouth is drawing ever nearer."
Flynn starts edging slowly towards the camera... Creeping forward....Stalking... Turning his head to the head, his tongue circling around his lips, tasting the air itself...
“You’re tired… You’re running on empty…”
“Just like this week, you haven’t been able to set the pace… You haven’t been able to get a single move of your own in…”
“All you’ve been able to do is try desperately to keep up… Responding as your opponents maintain total control of the match… Keep the energy going as you’re slowly outpaced… As you feel yourself being overcome on all sides… Helpless against your superior opponents…”
“Unlike this week, though, where you’ve been a hopeless wreck from start to finish… Clueless as you are out-classed… For a split second… For just half of a split fucking second…”
“You see an opening… Just a trickle of light for you to try and squeeze through… You have a chance… You leap for your opponent’s neck… Going for that ridiculous ‘Dream Catcher’ maneuver…”
“All you have to do is fall backwards and take the p-“
SNAP! The clack echoes… Flynn’s fist sits eager as he stops… Just in front of the camera… His smile is gone.
“Twist torso forward to block your momentum. Grab opponent’s left leg and lift… Fall backwards into a samoan drop… Tilting neck back at 9 degrees so opponent lands on the edge of his hip… Grounding him…”
“Trap arm. Twist up 120 degrees from ground. Start jacking back and forth until shoulder dislocates. Repeat as necessary with opposite arm… Until opponent is crippled for life…”
His eyes close, his mind’s eye imagining the systematic destruction, the step-by-step countering of Zi’s finishing maneuver, and subsequent evisceration…
“Bobby…”
“If there’s one thing I’m going to enjoy about this coming Madness.”
“It’ll be giving you a taste of your own medicine… Taking back my belt…”
Flynn surges forward… the only thing visible to the camera… His face… Twisted into a disgusting black grin…
“And crushing your dreams…”