Today is not going to be a happy day. There isn't going to be very much in the way of happy, playful insults. There will be no making up ridiculous stories regarding my opponent this week and his associates. There won't even be any of the usual lunacy where I pretend he's something that is obviously not real, like an Angel Kash robot, a plant alien with his brains in his armpits, or a mush-mouthed southerner who can't pronounce my name correctly because of the parasitic beard that's latched onto his face and is manipulating his brain via vile tendrils.
Brandon Vow, whose name I will pronounce correctly when he sees fit to get his tongue under control and be able to properly enunciate mine, is someone who needs to be dealt with the utmost seriousness.
Because the potential he has to cause mayhem and pain in ULW is unprecedented. He has the advantage of being in a position where he and his crows are seen as a lesser evil, as a threat that is not quite so dire as New Eden.
And because he hasn't dived into the deep end of wickedness, of supervillain cackling, whip wielding, summoning a gimp masked asshole when the lights are out to interfere in main events, meat curtain flapping, barbed wire noose lynching, Nazis-with-skulls-on-their-uniforms-are-we-the-baddies outright EVIL he comes off as comparatively harmless.
Hell, we agree on a whole lot of things. We both want to shake things up, to rip the corruption out of ULW in the head office and in the locker room. We think that New Eden is a cancer, that der Vaart is an inept, racist, dutch gorilla doing the arm pit fart when he ought to be booking shows and stringing together advertising to promote his company.
You don't have to go very far to see how badly this company is being mismanaged. Of how ULW's nose is being cut off to spite its face. You only need look at how I'm being excluded, isolated, ignored by ULW's media machine.
So it looks like Operation: Hungry Hungry Hippos is not going to be a thing. Despite it being one of those most out there and interesting ideas in the history of professional wrestling
My guess is that Clay Colton isn't feeling up to snuff with his pachyderm gobbling skills and that after spending two weeks not bathing and apparently squatting in some shit-filled warren in the greater New Jersey area, Cameron MacNichol is liable to confuse the marbles for candy and stuff them into his mouth, choking and turning almost as blue as I am in the middle of the ring.
And y'all have to admit it's a good idea. Because I'm not stupid. He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it and all that. I've seen enough pro wrestling to read between the lines and see where this is going to end up.
Willow Wilkes isn't wrestling. Cindy Todd isn't wrestling. Mogui never fucking wrestles in the first place. New Eden's got the World Title back in their possession but they were made to look like fools after they got run off from Paranoia.
So the image the folks at home got to wrap up the show, the freshest thing in their minds coming out of Paranoia, was New Eden running like a bunch of scalded doges. So fear. Such terrify. Very frighten. Much coward. Wow.
Wow, amazing, isn't it? Once again I've defeated the goober the Shadow Cartel has sent to put an end to me, I've shrugged off damage that would put a normal person in the hospital, and yet again Jason King and Willow Wilkes have a title match and have to be wrapped in bubble wrap and put up on a high shelf for a month so they don't shatter and explode into a million bajillion pieces.
What the fuck.
Seriously.
Once again we've got the champ and the ex-champ doing fuck all in the ring after a big show, and not merely a big show! This is, supposedly, the biggest show of the year! I would think that it would be Booking for Babby 101 level shit here to have the people involved at your PPV main event actually wrestling on the very next show, to capitalize on that hotness.
But no, this is Raymond the Fart we're talking about here. Ray Ray the Methane Powered Jet Plane who decided to stack Paranoia from top to bottom with part timers. I don't see Dante around here wrestling matches after his fucking with every main event match for the span of months. I don't see Cindy Todd skipping around a ring. I don't see the pasty face of Silencer the Evil Mime looming over the children in the crowd, taking their candy, and terrifying them. Hell, Lethal Weapon shot me in the motherfucking face and not only did I win my match, but I'm here to take ass and kick names, while he's fucked off back to the Weapon Cave to plot his next assassination attempt from a client in Gotham City.
Hell, of all the champions ULW has, we've got all of one of them wrestling on this show! Clay fucking Colton is the only champ not made of ceramic bits held together by Elmer's glue. Willow isn't wrestling, Gracie isn't wrestling, Mason isn't wrestling.
Isn't it strange that one show after Paranoia there are exactly three people who have been with this company for more than two months actually wrestling on it? Doesn't it seem a touch odd that we've all been crammed into the same match?
Gee, it's almost like when you try and cram in as many wrestling old timers to try and artificially inflate your ratings and buyrates for one night of the year, everything else suffers. Amazing how that works, that when you spent your time focusing on part time wrestlers and coddling your own little pet projects the show suffers.
I sit in the darkness, illuminated by the cone of light provided by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The scarred and tattered table before me has born witness to creation and destruction both. The creation of wondrous devices, prosthetics, and effects for use in film and television, as well as the destruction of dozens, perhaps even hundreds of individuals.
This is where the magic happens. This is where the Dark Man himself, Desolation, verbally devastated a stunning amount of people during his career. Today it's not covered with special effects debris, photographs of foes, or piles of title belts. It is not a place for the trophies of my mentor, but rather my own.
Spread out before me are the remnants of those who have fallen before me. Swords, knives, maces, staves, spears; the enchanted arms and armor of dozens of men and woman. I give the bulb a tap with my fingers setting it swaying from side to side as the camera zooms out.
There isn't just one table. There are several. And they are not alone in their contents. The floor holds a vast array of treasure and trophies alike. Precious metals in the form of coins, of bars, of crafted works like cups, statues, ceremonial attire and weapons, and other decorative objects.
Tradition is what Lethal Weapon drives him, motivates him, what has set him on a path against me.
Not the tradition of professional wrestling, but rather the tradition of everyone that seems to oppose me having their head crammed way up their own ass.
Because if you want a traditional professional wrestler you don't have to look much further than me.
This sport has always been about size and spectacle. About larger than life physical specimens with equally large and vibrant personalities. People come to wrestling shows to be awed, to be entertained, to stare in wonder at feats of athleticism that the average man on the street is utterly incapable of performing.
They come to watch other human beings doing flips, twists, and rotations as they soar through the air. They come to watch masterminds sizing up their foes and picking them apart, reducing them to a physical wreck as they destroy a single body part. They come to watch behemoths trade blows that would fell a normal human being.
I am a sight to behold, a wondrous creature from another realm of existence. I am a powerful, agile, beautiful titan. I tower over the vast majority of humanity. There are less than a hundred men in the US that are taller than I am. The tallest living woman in the world has a scant four inches of height on me.
-CD-
You never realize how much you miss something until it's gone, until a thing that has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember vanishes into thin air. Gone in an instant. Sometimes it's a relief, sometimes it's a pain, and sometimes it's something so dire you wonder how you're ever going to get along without it.
So when a constant companion unexpectedly slipped back into my life I was overwhelmed with emotion, relief, joy. I'd lost something that had been alongside me every step of the way since having fled a dark elf insurrection years upon years ago up until I found myself stolen away from my home and dropped into an unfamiliar world.
I could ruminate on my feelings and plumb the depths of emotion (and no doubt my incestuous fascination with an absent mother figure according to Freud) later. For the moment I had business to attend to.
You hear various figures about exactly how much of the human body is made of water, sixty, seventy, eighty, some batshit insane google results somewhere up in the 90's and probably some Steiner match clocking it in at 141 ⅔ percent water. Whatever the truth is, there's enough water there for my innate ties to the element of water to get a pretty good fix on people.
[We open to find ULW's Big Blue Brute, Kalinda Kriegdottir, in what we presume is her apartment, flopped down on her bed. Well, we assume it's her apartment because the bed is huge and sized for her seven foot frame, and the ceilings are high enough that she won't bonk her head.]
[The Deadly Dragonspawn isn't looking so deadly, nestled in a nest of pillows and blankets, staring up at the ceiling, pondering things and eating a sliced of recently cooked frozen pizza.]
Kalinda: We're not getting this one again, Spark. Tombstone. It's very bland and there's no crust to it, so you have to grab ahold of the cheese.
Spark: Or you could use a fork.
Kalinda: Blasphemy! You pick up a slice of pizza without the aid of silverware! Only when you've loaded it with so many toppings that the structural integrity can no longer be maintained, then and only then can you use utensils.
Something so skinny as a thin crusted frozen pizza does not meet this fundamental requirement. Thus I think I would much rather chew on an actual tombstone. There's like no flavor here, so terribly, terribly bland.
Spark: And speaking of terribly bland, how's your Twitter brawl with The Inbred Assassin Eric "Chocolate Rain" Huehuehuerrera going?
