When you're thrown into a casket, locked in, and set on fire oddly enough you end up with quite a bit of time to think about things before it gets really uncomfortable. It isn't the flames that end up doing the damage, but rather the heat.
If it had been a nice, pleasant pine box I would've been good. I could've punched through that sucker like tissue paper. It would've taken forever to burn. Think of how long it takes for logs on a fire to burn all the way through. Your average casket's got a good inch or so of wood between you and the outside world, and wood is a shitty conductor. Like Southeastern levels of shitty conductors.
Showing posts with label Mr. Gaunt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mr. Gaunt. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
ULW's Fuck'd Up Friday, 9/18/15, Kalinda RP 1 of 1
-Promo-
No one wants to do their fucking job around here. The referees that cannot see, the management won't do anything remotely resembling good business, the booking committee cannot stop changing its fucking mind after the preliminary card already goes out, and the other wrestlers refuse to fucking wrestle real fucking wrestling matches.
I've tried. Goddess knows I've tried so hard to actually go out there and perform the functions of the task for which I am under contract to provide. I was under the impression that professional wrestlers were supposed to be gladiators for a new day and a new age. That they would take part in grand, glorious displays of one on one combat with the purpose of providing bloodsport for the entertainment of the masses.
But it's so difficult to do that when a select minority of one's co-workers holds to the same ideals. They do not want to have fights, they do not want to have battle, they do not want to partake in grand, glorious struggles filled with honor and drama, with both parties through mind, body, and soul into the flames of combat to obtain victory.
No, they simply wish to bypass the whole struggle part and simply be handed glory and victory on a silver fucking platter. I gave Brandon Vow a chance. I gave him an opportunity. I let him have everything he'd need to show the world the truth of his words.
I gave him every chance to claim the title of Dragonslayer. I held back all night. I let him pour everything he had into me and in the end he could not get the job done. When the bell rang, I was not slain. I was standing tall with the object that he had chosen in his feeble attempt to slay me, the object that he had swung with all his strength. The object that failed completely and utterly to do anything more than fuel my rage.
No one wants to do their fucking job around here. The referees that cannot see, the management won't do anything remotely resembling good business, the booking committee cannot stop changing its fucking mind after the preliminary card already goes out, and the other wrestlers refuse to fucking wrestle real fucking wrestling matches.
I've tried. Goddess knows I've tried so hard to actually go out there and perform the functions of the task for which I am under contract to provide. I was under the impression that professional wrestlers were supposed to be gladiators for a new day and a new age. That they would take part in grand, glorious displays of one on one combat with the purpose of providing bloodsport for the entertainment of the masses.
But it's so difficult to do that when a select minority of one's co-workers holds to the same ideals. They do not want to have fights, they do not want to have battle, they do not want to partake in grand, glorious struggles filled with honor and drama, with both parties through mind, body, and soul into the flames of combat to obtain victory.
No, they simply wish to bypass the whole struggle part and simply be handed glory and victory on a silver fucking platter. I gave Brandon Vow a chance. I gave him an opportunity. I let him have everything he'd need to show the world the truth of his words.
I gave him every chance to claim the title of Dragonslayer. I held back all night. I let him pour everything he had into me and in the end he could not get the job done. When the bell rang, I was not slain. I was standing tall with the object that he had chosen in his feeble attempt to slay me, the object that he had swung with all his strength. The object that failed completely and utterly to do anything more than fuel my rage.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
IWC's Last Stand, 2/25/15, Kalinda/Legion RP 1 of 1
Five months ago I severed ties with the IWC. Five months ago I cut the federation that I spent six months of my life prepping for. Five months ago I said farewell to the collection of idiots, morons, hacks, and egomaniacal dipshits that decided that the best place to put a seven foot tall dragoness was in a freakshow division fighting against an idiot, a moron, and a retard.
And they teamed him with an autistic and a midget.
I'm better than that. I know I'm better than that. But because I didn't pick a side, that I didn't surgically graft my lips to the asses of either one of the emergent factions whose warfare dominated IWC I was ignored. I was an afterthought. I was given no opportunity to thrive amidst inferior fellows. There were teeming masses of non-wrestlers and the personal friends of Mr. Flies and the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling needed lavish paydays, and brother dude jack, trickle down Hoganomics is what's best for business, Mean Gene!
And in those five long months I've shown the IWC what fools they were to waste me like they did. Remember my farewell pay per view match? You know, the one that was signed into being at virtually the last minute. The one that got made as an afterthought. The one where two people who had been with the IWC since its founding were given less consideration than some schmucks who had just signed with the company days before.
And speaking of schmucks, do you know just how wonderful and forward looking that little contest was? Of the four people that stayed with the fed in those five months only Leviticus has wrestled, he only did it for one match, and he sucked ass in it.
Yeah, the exact moment I left the fed, they stopped bringing in Fitzgerald. Amazing, isn't it? It's like he was brought in with the sole intention of being an embarrassment and being a gods damned albatross around my neck.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
ULW's Fucked Up Friday, 1/30/15, Kalinda RP 2 of 2
In order to most efficiently beat the absolute FUCK out of somebody you have to know three things. You have to know yourself, you have to know your enemy, and you have to know the world you two are living in.
Now for most people that first one is easy, 'cause there really has to be something wrong with you in order for you to be lying to yourself so damned bad that you're a goddamn stranger to your own sorry ass self. And I don't me lying on your left arm til it goes numb and using it to jerk off.
Knowing your enemy? That can be easy or it can be hard. But with video tape… well motherfucking DVD's and the interbutts these days, it's pretty easy to get to know the person you're aiming to skullfuck into sausage meat if they're a pro wrestler. They invite you into a jam session in their skulls twice a week and then you get to see 'em fight.
Now knowing the world? That's the motherfucking kicker. There's a bunch of shit that goes down that most people don't know about, 'cause they can't fucking see it. I'm not just talking about angels and demons and ghosts and devils and shit (well, maybe not shit. You can see shit. Though sometimes you don't, you step in it, and you track filth all over the fucking place.)
That's simple stuff, that's shit you can see by turning the dial every so slightly so that you get a bid of a bleedover between channels. Spooky shit you can understand, because it does stuff. It wants stuff. The creeps fucking do things, ya know?
Not the Eyes, man. Not the motherfucking Eyes. They might not be there all the time, but they're there for import things, and they're watching, man. They're fuckin' watching."
-SPIDER
There are times when you just want to be alone, to just sit by yourself along with your own thoughts and hash them out. Or in my case get them all in order so you can sit down and write an article about how exactly you managed to go from your native high-magic, rather interesting world with a plethora of sentient species to a magically barren crudball of a world with only one species of person that can carry a conversation.
The universe hates those times and will move heaven and earth to do whatever it can to fuck with them. Case in point, I'd plopped myself down with my laptop and a big orange mug of hot chocolate that was approximately one third marshmallow by volume when somebody started pounding on my door like it owed them money.
Now for most people that first one is easy, 'cause there really has to be something wrong with you in order for you to be lying to yourself so damned bad that you're a goddamn stranger to your own sorry ass self. And I don't me lying on your left arm til it goes numb and using it to jerk off.
Knowing your enemy? That can be easy or it can be hard. But with video tape… well motherfucking DVD's and the interbutts these days, it's pretty easy to get to know the person you're aiming to skullfuck into sausage meat if they're a pro wrestler. They invite you into a jam session in their skulls twice a week and then you get to see 'em fight.
Now knowing the world? That's the motherfucking kicker. There's a bunch of shit that goes down that most people don't know about, 'cause they can't fucking see it. I'm not just talking about angels and demons and ghosts and devils and shit (well, maybe not shit. You can see shit. Though sometimes you don't, you step in it, and you track filth all over the fucking place.)
That's simple stuff, that's shit you can see by turning the dial every so slightly so that you get a bid of a bleedover between channels. Spooky shit you can understand, because it does stuff. It wants stuff. The creeps fucking do things, ya know?
Not the Eyes, man. Not the motherfucking Eyes. They might not be there all the time, but they're there for import things, and they're watching, man. They're fuckin' watching."
-SPIDER
There are times when you just want to be alone, to just sit by yourself along with your own thoughts and hash them out. Or in my case get them all in order so you can sit down and write an article about how exactly you managed to go from your native high-magic, rather interesting world with a plethora of sentient species to a magically barren crudball of a world with only one species of person that can carry a conversation.
The universe hates those times and will move heaven and earth to do whatever it can to fuck with them. Case in point, I'd plopped myself down with my laptop and a big orange mug of hot chocolate that was approximately one third marshmallow by volume when somebody started pounding on my door like it owed them money.
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