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+---- Thread: Lemon Squeezey (/showthread.php?tid=26152)
Lemon Squeezey - Brandon Moore - 01-13-2017
-Ronnie Cage-
“Yew need to focus, Brandouche. Ah’m starvin’ so Ah’m gonna go git somethin’ to fuckin’ eat. Keep yore head on yore gat damn shoulders while Ah’m gone, will ya?”
Brandon smacks Ronnie’s finger away from his face and jumps to his feet. He stands at attention and places his flat, open hand out from his forehead to salute his Havoc stablemate.
-Brandon Moore-
“Sir, yes, sir! I tell yew what.”
Ronnie grabs Brandon’s hand from his forehead and throws it back down at his side. Brandon continues to stand at attention. Ronnie would normally lay into Brandon some more or flip him the bird, but he’s too hungry for that nonsense right now. Satan’s Superior simply shakes his head and disregards Brandon as he heads out of the locker room to find something to quell his hunger before match time. After Ronnie leaves, Brandon scans the floor looking for the quarter he was flipping before it was so rudely knocked away. He has no luck. Brandon sighs and slumps back down into his chair.
He gets a pondering expression upon his face, trying to think of something, anything to do. He’s not hungry so that’s not an option. He could go and interfere in someone else’s business, but that would just piss Ronnie off if he didn’t include him. Brandon perks up suddenly now as if a light bulb lit up over his head. He stands and heads towards his bag on the locker room bench a few feet away. Brandon unzips the bag and pulls out his handheld camera and gets a big smile on his face. It looks as if he’s found something to do. Brandon opens the camera, smashes the record button, and focuses the view on his face.
-Brandon Moore-
“Listen up, motherfuckers…oh, you’ve got to be shitting me!”
Just like that, Brandon’s hopes and dreams have been crushed. The battery on his video camera is dead. The entire thing shut down just as Brandon was about to cure his boredom and verbally rip apart his opponents. He closes the screen and shoves the camera back into his bag. He zips up the bag and storms out of the locker room. Ronnie’s getting food, so he won’t interrupt that, but Brandon is on a mission to find something to do. He’s got some things he wants to say. His goal is to find a way to say it.
Unfortunately for Steve Sayors, he is that avenue for Brandon. Winding up and down the corridors of the Sun Dome, Brandon spots the pencil-necked interviewer of the XWF. Steve is leaning against a wall, fiddling through is phone, unaware of the trouble coming his way. Brandon smacks Steve’s phone out of his hand and gets in his face. Steve is obviously extremely startled. His interactions with Brandon have not been so great.
-Brandon Moore-
“What’s up, numbnuts? My camera’s battery shit the bed. I’ll charge it later, but right now, I’m bored. Bored as fuck to be exact. So, pick your phone up, text your little buddies or whoever needs to show up and interview me. I’ve got some shit to say and I can’t fucking do it. So, chop chop.”
Brandon makes a chopping motion with his hand as Steve complies. He picks up his phone and shoots a text to the XWF camera crew. It only takes around five minutes after the text is sent for them to arrive on the scene. They even have a makeshift XWF backdrop to place behind Brandon and Steve. Steve is handed a microphone and they are ready to roll! The camera starts and Brandon Moore is finally able to say what he needs to say for the audience in the Sun Dome.
-Steve Sayors-
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have with me the XWF Federweight Champion, Brandon Moore. He’s asked for some int…”
As soon as he was in the picture, boom, Steve Sayors is out of the picture. Brandon sent a gnarly body check into him while snagging the microphone. The camera crew continues rolling even though they are worried about the wellbeing of their colleague. Brandon pays no mind to Sayors any further. He has the microphone. It’s his time to speak.
-Brandon Moore-
“On Wednesday, I travel to Antarctica to fight Robbie Bourbon on a fucking cruise ship for the XWF Hart Championship! That is the big news going around, but let’s not forget about tonight. Right here in Tampa, Florida, I’ve got some business to take care of first. Ronnie Cage and I are set to take on Reeve and Snow. Broken Hart and the Frosty Lesbian. That sounds like a punk band. Anyways, easy peasy lemon fucking squeezey. This won’t be the first time that Havoc has massacred these fools and I’m betting it won’t be the last.
My match with Robbie Bourbon is a fucking spectacle waiting to happen, but don’t think you two are off my radar. You’re not getting through this that easily. You must have pissed somebody off, Reevey Boy and Snowy Poo. You’re being fed to the wolves tonight. We’re hungry. We’re going to show you damn well why Havoc is the personification of perfection…why Havoc is superior to fucking Satan himself…why Havoc is just plain better. Tonight is when it gets serious. Tonight, the world becomes ours.”
Brandon doesn’t drop the mic. He throws it at Steve Sayors off screen instead. That was intense. Brandon didn’t mess around. He swore a bunch still, but he didn’t mess around. When it comes to hurting people, he gets very serious. Brandon now storms out of the camera’s sight back to the locker room, hoping to find something else to pass even more time until the scheduled time of the match.