Post by Press1269 on Nov 11, 2016 8:31:28 GMT
DC Armory and Sports Complex
Washington DC
11/6/2016
SOB stalked out of his dressing room after getting a shower after The Main Event, and witnessing on the monitor what he missed while he was lying flat on his back in the center of the ring. When he rounded the corner, he ran smack dab into a camera man, and he stared hard at the man, and pointed an accusing finger in his face.
“I’m glad you’re here, muthafucka! Get that god damn thing rolling.”
The cameraman didn’t dare to speak up for fear of a physical confrontation, so he hoisted his machine onto his shoulder and began recording.
SOB paced back and forth along the dimly lit corridor, hands on his hips, as if he were searching the floor for what he wanted to say. Suddenly, his eyes flashed up, and his lip curled in disgust.
“Zack Fantana, you sack of shit. People have been lapping up your gravy ever since you started cooking in this joint, but I ain’t buying it. Fans all up in arms about what’s going to happen next, talking about the fact that there wasn’t a championship in that briefcase. Well if you haven’t figured out by now, let me spell it out; these cracka’s that run this place are a few cards shy of a full deck, and it doesn’t surprise me one bit that they could fuck this up. I mean, after all, they sure do seem to think you’re something special.”
SOB snorts, shaking his head in disgust.
“Nate Hollis talking about motherfuckers being disappointed cause they didn’t win their matches. Muthafucka, keep yo fat fucking gums shut before I knock them down your throat like chicklets! Looking like some sort of used up Fat Albert after he found the pipe. Shit! This muthafucka probably asks for gift cards to Bojangles for Christmas, the tubby fuck.”
SOB sneers, a nasty chuckle to follow.
“You see, Nathan, a man can’t be disappointed if he doesn’t really give a damn. Sure, it would have been nice to beat the brakes off those two honkeys in front of a predominantly cracka crowd, but at the end of the day I got paid, and that’s all I really care about. “
“Actually, sir.” The cameraman interrupts, “Kimitsu Zombie is Japanese.”
SOB’s eyebrows raise, and he comes dangerously close to the camera.
“Is that supposed to mean something, honkey? The Japanese are just near sighted yellow cracka’s! Now if you don’t mind, can I get to my fucking point without any more interruptions from the peanut gallery?”
The camera screen moves up and down in a nod, and SOB settles back in satisfaction.
“You see, I’m a man that believes in taking his time. While everyone else is scrambling to be the first, I’m just fine with being the last. And that’s EXACTLY what will happen if I ever get my hands on that belt, Zack Fantana, cause I won’t ever let it go. I don’t think the same can be said for you, Zack, cause quite frankly, I’m aiming make sure that you ain’t the ‘so-called-champion of an empty briefcase’ come our next event.”
A dark flash of white gleams from an ebony backdrop as SOB grins.
“I don’t care if we’re facing each other one on one, fatal four way, triple threat, or whatever other bullshit these cracka’s got cooked up, you ain’t walking out the champion.”
“It’s a Royal Rumble with most of the Resilience Roster on deck, and it’s for the championship.” The cameraman offers.
SOB’s eyes light up, and the grin turns even more sardonic.
“Is you fucking serious, white bread? Well God Damn, that’s just perfect. While all these other cracka’s battle to try and become the champion, I got one goal, and one goal only. Eliminate Zack Fantana!”
SOB rubs his hands in front of him conspiratorially.
“Oh, Zack, you got no idea, son. I’mma Beat Yo Ass! Go ahead and throw some of that nonsense at me about sending letters through the mail and shit, see if it goes over as well for you this time. Shit, even I have to admit that was entertaining, trying to watch you fit your whole vocabulary into one long run-on sentence that equated to a mound of bullshit. You’re about as useful around here as an ashtray on a motorcycle, and I just keep mashing the throttle, Muthafucka!”
SOB’s ire is up, and he begins to stalk the corridor again like a caged animal.
“I don’t even know what it is about you Zack that pisses me off so bad. I’m not so petty that I let a little thing like one loss get me this bent out of shape, but every time I hear those fans cheering, and your googly eyed ass holds his hands over his head, well, it just makes me fucking sick. And don’t deny that shit either!”
SOB points at the camera.
“One eye is down in your cheek, the other up on your forehead. You’re one punch to the skull away from being Sloth from the Goonies, cracka!”
SOB chuckles, and then holds his hands up in a placating manner.
“I’m just kidding with you Zack. You’re as pretty as a picture. Lord knows I wanna hang you.”
SOB’s chuckles come to an abrupt halt, and his eyes grow hard as he mean-mugs the camera.
“But this ain’t no laughing matter, fool. Come Massacre Numero Dos, I’m not even going to worry with the other asshats in the ring, but I’m going to go right after you, and if they got any god damn sense, they’ll just get out of the way and let me handle my business. If not, then maybe they’ll get some of the same. Now get the fuck outta here, cracka! I got a check to cash!”
SOB stalks down the hall, and the scene fades to black.