Post by Press1269 on Oct 30, 2016 21:23:58 GMT
DC Armory and Sports Complex
Washington, D.C.
10/30/2016
The scene opens up with a shot of S.O.B. sitting on the front steps of the DC Armory and Sports Complex, wearing a pair of blue jeans, tan timberlands, and a black t-shirt accompanied by a black jacket that looks two times too large for him. A black hat sits backwards on his head. His arms are thrown across his knees, and he stares straight ahead at the camera with his typical scowl.
“Austin Gale, you trumped up muthafucka! I’ve had a chance to take a look at some of the AWE records, and your bio confirms everything that I thought. Ole’ white money, with white people problems, and Canadian to boot. Notice I said ‘boot’, not ‘aboot’ muthafucka, so don’t be trying none of that Canadian bullshit with me. I’m not about to learn a foreign language just to combat yo ass, and don’t give a fuck about Moose, Mounties, Hockey, or whatever fucked up shit ya’ll got up there.”
His lip curls at the thought of Canadians, and he dismisses the notion with a shake of his head.
“Everything about you is a god damn cliché, down to how you dress in the ring to your music choices for entrance. Blue tights with white vines down the side, and why? Cause vines are associated with lattices, and lattices are usually found on uppity cracka homes in uppity cracka housing developments. And then this entrance music…”
S.O.B.’s eyebrow shoots up.
“A bunch of clean cut white bread muthafucka’s wearing Abercrombie but trying to pull off some heavy metal devil music set to the tune of basic bitch alternative! But hey, that’s your whole M.O. isn’t it cracka. Running around here acting like yo shit don’t stink cause you got some ole’ white money, which begs the question of why you’re here in the first place. It ain’t like you gotta be cracka. Ain’t no worrying for you about where your next meal is coming from, or how you’re going to pay your rent.”
S.O.B. sneers, allowing a chuckle at his next thought.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. This cracka here likes torturing people. Well that sounds real god damn healthy! Just like any ole’ typical white muthafucka, you get yo jolly’s from treating people like they trash, and subjugating and oppressing people when they already down. Shit, yo greatest claim to fame so far is some bull shit match called the ‘Tower of Torture’."
S.O.B. gives the camera an incredulous stare.
“What the fuck is that? Sounds to me like a god damn haunted attraction for Halloween. That, or anytime you open your stupid cracka mouth! Well you’re in luck, muthafucka, cause it’s the season for running around trying to scare little kids, so I bet you as excited as your bitch mama was when your uncle/daddy laid the pipe and spurted you’re ignorant ass out!”
Buchanan shudders, and the scowl returns with even more disdain than before.
“At the end of the day, Austin Gale, I don’t give a shit who you are, where you come from, or how much fucking money you can toss around this joint. Samuel Orville Buchanan ain’t playing field hand to no god damn body, and the minute we get in that ring I’m going to reverse roles on yo ass, and show you what it feels like to be somebody else’s bitch. Don’t believe me? Well that makes it even sweeter. I love that look of surprise on a muthafucka’s face when I put my boot so far up they cracka ass that it makes them fart out they mouth!”
An accusatory finger pops up, and is shoved right towards the camera.
“And you, Adam Wolfe, I don’t know what yo game is in all of this, but I know any muthafucka that plays with puppets, and any muthafucka that hangs around with a guy that plays with puppets, must have a god damn screw loose! If you decide to stick yo cracka ass in my business, I’m going to give you the opportunity to know what it feels like to have someone’s hand shoved up yo ass and work your mouth with their fucking fingers! BELIEVE DAT!”
The finger disappears, and S.O.B. leans back, his arms crossed over his chest with a look of total disgust.
“You know, AWE, I don’t know that $500 a match is going to cover these kind of shenanigans. These crazy ass white folk ain’t got enough sense to get out of a shower of shit, and I’m left to wonder what the fucks next. I mean, I beat Austin Gale, I get to go on to face two other busted up pariahs in the Main Event for the Resilience Championship, and as nice as it might sound carrying that piece of tin over my shoulder, I just don’t know that it’s worth it.”
He shakes his head.
“I mean, there’s only so many creative ways that a man can say what his intentions are, and quite frankly, all of you bustah ass cracka’s is the same. Different names, different gimmicks, different approaches, but still cracka’s at the heart of the matter. I got one sista’ up in this joint, and she’s a coffee colored bitch with bright red hair cause that’s what the white folk expect of her. Her catchphrase of choice is ‘booboo’. BITCH, come at me with that and I’ll spread some ‘booboo’ all over yo god damn mouth.”
Lip curl.
“And the rest of them is just uppity. Like Benny Stevens, Zack Fantana, Colgate Carnage. Cracka your named after fucking toothpaste. I’m trying to figure out a way to bust yo ass, and yo name got me worried about dental hygiene.”
S.O.B. just shakes his head.
“I never thought of myself as a savior, but with the way things have already stacked up around here, I might have to pull my ‘superman’ card, and it all starts with you Austin Gale. See you Sunday, Cracka!”