Post by adm on Jul 19, 2011 9:54:53 GMT -6
A man without ethics is a wild beast loosed upon this world.
Albert Camus
Well, well, Well...Will you look what the plebeians have as their entertainment on Trauma this week. Isn't it funny, PAL, that after you do such a shameful thing, then half-ass apologize to Gardener. Well, I think you owe a bit of apology to me too for those lame ass tactics, but then again, I shouldn't expect much from a man who lacks any sort of ethics like you. So I guess I should lower myself to your level...or just do you one better.
****
Kristoff Liam Bates is not in the gym, or at the bar. Tonight, of all nights, he has found himself sitting in the apartment he has rented in the Golden Gate side of San Francisco. The scenery out the second-story window is amazing, and for seven hundred dollars a month, he has a nice storage "shed" for his stuff, safe and secure from anything except Earthquakes. But he's not looking to enjoy the scenery. Instead, as the fluorescent light comes from the ceiling of the living room, he sits in a rather expensive looking armchair with blood on his hands. The blood is his own, and there is also another thing in his hands as his smile widens.
"Don't unleash the wolves, Pooler. You don't know what you're doing. Think you are some sort of genius, claiming a few losses will turn me into a pushover, oh far from it. Never push Kristoff Liam Bates around, just ask Gib, and Angel. Never forget how INFAMOUS I have been, and will be again."
Bates stares up, the evil glint of his eyes magnified by the thick Horn-Rimmed glasses on his face. Bates is dressed in a grungy jean jacket, Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and ripped pair of jeans. The steel toed sneakers on his feet say he's been stealing from construction sites, as the dried cement and wood shavings speak louder than words ever could.
"So, teaming up again, I can handle that, Pooler. I can play nice in the match, just to get a win. I can play FAIR and HONEST and ETHICAL while the bell rings, just like the Honor Champion should. But you can't keep me honorable all the time. Old habits die hard, just like the Locke brothers supposedly would like to think they do. Though, after their poor showing last week, I would like to second-guess that one."
The camera comes closer, and begins to see through the blood and wrapping hands what Bates is doing. He has an old, battered, and disgruntled looking solid steel office-style briefcase in his hands, dented and bloodied by not only his hands, but it's troubled past. Barbed wire, rusted and bloody lies in shards on the floor around him as we begin to see the twisted smirk on his thirty-three year old face. The hair on his head is matted, mottled, and looks almost as crazy as an older Ludwig Van Beethoven would have, deafly playing out a piano concerto without a clue what sounds he was producing. In Bates' bloody hands is a new batch of barbed wire, which looks freshly cut from a security fence on some construction site.
"You see, Pooler, I used to be feared around here. I used to claim this and that. When I was "PERFECTLY NORMAL" Kristoff Liam Bates, I beat my wife for getting my breakfast of eggs, over easy, wrong. When I was "XTREMELY NORMAL" I leaped off the stage with a Swingline Stapler Press to put Gib down for the count, in a non-Main Event or Title match. And when I was just plain INfamous Kristoff Liam Bates, I helped try to kill William Washington in the Coliseum with Jimmy Zane, now known as James Wolfe. And through it all, through ALL of it, there has been one constant in my career in this place."
Bates nods down to the briefcase he is ever-so-diligently wrapping in barbed wire, not caring about the bloody pricks he's giving his own hands by handling the stuff as carelessly and with un-gloved hands. A small chuckle seems to rise out of him like the opening lines of Toccata E Fuga by Johann Sebastian Bach.
"Bob Pooler, this is my secret, the method behind my madness. You see, I have this little, quirk, about myself. I'm not exactly the most stable or sane individual. You have seen that. I mean, I CAN be sane during matches, sometimes. But most of the time, I have a tendency to go a little...how would you insignificant imbeciles say...Postal? MWAHAHA! You see, I'm no evil genius, I'm no super villain like Rob Diamond, I'm just Kristoff Liam Bates. But the secret of Bates is that beneath every calm exterior is a monster waiting to come loose. And that monster was first loosed by the man who came to referee my winning of this lovely Honor Championship, Gib."
Bates points to the wall, where he has the Honor Championship hung. His evil glint moves from the belt to the briefcase once again.
"Now, don't you worry your pretty little head. I PROMISE I won't cost us the match, like you probably assume I will. You see, I'm not so petty to get you back for that little stunt you pulled, causing a disqualification in a match I CLEARLY was going to win. No...no. What I am going to do is give you that false sense of security by helping you win the match, and then the minute you have your back turned..."
Bates holds up the now-finished Barbed Wire wrapped Briefcase. Swinging it down forcefully with the next word he utters.
"WHAM! Right on your soft spot! I will cause enough cranial damage that the blood will pour out of you, onto the mat, staining it red with the deceit and disdain I have for your shady tactics. I will show you that two can play this lovely game, by removing a little bit of your hair, scalp, and possibly a few fragments of your SKULL before sauntering off with MY Honor Championship in hand. You see, I raised my voice because it is mine, not yours. You will not be getting it, so long as I hold it. This is a simple fact of life, Pooler. You see, I won this from Spike and the OTHER Gardener after beating you by a fraction of a second making poor Nathan Webb tap out to the Suffocating Cubicle, while you had poor No-Win Everyman on the mat for the one-two...and that's all you got before I walked away with the #1 contender spot and you came away with NOTHING!"
Bates laughs to himself with jollity. He slowly places the Briefcase down and picks up the Honor Championship, before spitting on it to shine the surface a little.
"And I know, after the last two weeks, you are still FUMING over that. But I am the one with this title, not you. But you know..."
Bates holds the title out like he's handing it to Pooler, before dropping it on the ground.
"It doesn't mean anything to me, without your blood spilt all over it, Pooler. I didn't beat anyone, I picked apart broken bodies to win this. Without your blood, your sweat, your tears, I cannot feel satisfied with this trash-can-championship I hold. But you know what I do have to start the bloodbath of my reign as Honor Champion? MY blood."
Bates picks the title back up off the ground, and smiles as he uses the dripping blood on his fingers to scribble the word "Dis" before Honor on the championship, before underlining his name in his own blood.
"Ah, so much better. This looks more familiar to me, doesn't it look better to you, Pooler? I mean, it really shows what an out-of-match makover can do for a championship like this. I really like it more this way. You see, if you play your cards right and come to Picture Perfect next week gunning for my championship, that's all well and good. I promise I'll play fair, as long as the referee is looking. The minute he turns, the DIShonor will begin. The briefcase will taste your flesh. The staplers, the letter openers, all of my office supplies of doom will come out. You see, it's not the Xtreme Championship anymore, it's the Honor Championship. But you know what Spike Kane forgot...what the ref doesn't know...won't hurt him. And also, what happens before and after the two bells, won't hurt anyone either."
Bates' face lights up with a clever and wicked smile as he raises a single finger to his chin, leaving a small smear of blood on it.
"Well...unless that anyone happens to be...YOU! And don't worry, I also have plans for the Locke brothers, Pooler. They probably won't be in much shape when they come to the ring to be trouble for us, anyway. I mean, they seem like such a cohesive team, only one of them is serious and the other is a retard. One of them talks, the other stays silent. It's just so one-sided for us to begin with, why not ERASE them before they get a chance to shine? So be glad you're partnering with me this week. Because the minute the match is over and we have our hands raised in victory. I'll consider the final road to Picture Perfect to have begun, and take you down like the dog you really are. Ta ta, see you at Trauma."
At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures - be what he is. And, above all, accept these things.
Albert Camus
Albert Camus
Well, well, Well...Will you look what the plebeians have as their entertainment on Trauma this week. Isn't it funny, PAL, that after you do such a shameful thing, then half-ass apologize to Gardener. Well, I think you owe a bit of apology to me too for those lame ass tactics, but then again, I shouldn't expect much from a man who lacks any sort of ethics like you. So I guess I should lower myself to your level...or just do you one better.
****
Kristoff Liam Bates is not in the gym, or at the bar. Tonight, of all nights, he has found himself sitting in the apartment he has rented in the Golden Gate side of San Francisco. The scenery out the second-story window is amazing, and for seven hundred dollars a month, he has a nice storage "shed" for his stuff, safe and secure from anything except Earthquakes. But he's not looking to enjoy the scenery. Instead, as the fluorescent light comes from the ceiling of the living room, he sits in a rather expensive looking armchair with blood on his hands. The blood is his own, and there is also another thing in his hands as his smile widens.
"Don't unleash the wolves, Pooler. You don't know what you're doing. Think you are some sort of genius, claiming a few losses will turn me into a pushover, oh far from it. Never push Kristoff Liam Bates around, just ask Gib, and Angel. Never forget how INFAMOUS I have been, and will be again."
Bates stares up, the evil glint of his eyes magnified by the thick Horn-Rimmed glasses on his face. Bates is dressed in a grungy jean jacket, Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and ripped pair of jeans. The steel toed sneakers on his feet say he's been stealing from construction sites, as the dried cement and wood shavings speak louder than words ever could.
"So, teaming up again, I can handle that, Pooler. I can play nice in the match, just to get a win. I can play FAIR and HONEST and ETHICAL while the bell rings, just like the Honor Champion should. But you can't keep me honorable all the time. Old habits die hard, just like the Locke brothers supposedly would like to think they do. Though, after their poor showing last week, I would like to second-guess that one."
The camera comes closer, and begins to see through the blood and wrapping hands what Bates is doing. He has an old, battered, and disgruntled looking solid steel office-style briefcase in his hands, dented and bloodied by not only his hands, but it's troubled past. Barbed wire, rusted and bloody lies in shards on the floor around him as we begin to see the twisted smirk on his thirty-three year old face. The hair on his head is matted, mottled, and looks almost as crazy as an older Ludwig Van Beethoven would have, deafly playing out a piano concerto without a clue what sounds he was producing. In Bates' bloody hands is a new batch of barbed wire, which looks freshly cut from a security fence on some construction site.
"You see, Pooler, I used to be feared around here. I used to claim this and that. When I was "PERFECTLY NORMAL" Kristoff Liam Bates, I beat my wife for getting my breakfast of eggs, over easy, wrong. When I was "XTREMELY NORMAL" I leaped off the stage with a Swingline Stapler Press to put Gib down for the count, in a non-Main Event or Title match. And when I was just plain INfamous Kristoff Liam Bates, I helped try to kill William Washington in the Coliseum with Jimmy Zane, now known as James Wolfe. And through it all, through ALL of it, there has been one constant in my career in this place."
Bates nods down to the briefcase he is ever-so-diligently wrapping in barbed wire, not caring about the bloody pricks he's giving his own hands by handling the stuff as carelessly and with un-gloved hands. A small chuckle seems to rise out of him like the opening lines of Toccata E Fuga by Johann Sebastian Bach.
"Bob Pooler, this is my secret, the method behind my madness. You see, I have this little, quirk, about myself. I'm not exactly the most stable or sane individual. You have seen that. I mean, I CAN be sane during matches, sometimes. But most of the time, I have a tendency to go a little...how would you insignificant imbeciles say...Postal? MWAHAHA! You see, I'm no evil genius, I'm no super villain like Rob Diamond, I'm just Kristoff Liam Bates. But the secret of Bates is that beneath every calm exterior is a monster waiting to come loose. And that monster was first loosed by the man who came to referee my winning of this lovely Honor Championship, Gib."
Bates points to the wall, where he has the Honor Championship hung. His evil glint moves from the belt to the briefcase once again.
"Now, don't you worry your pretty little head. I PROMISE I won't cost us the match, like you probably assume I will. You see, I'm not so petty to get you back for that little stunt you pulled, causing a disqualification in a match I CLEARLY was going to win. No...no. What I am going to do is give you that false sense of security by helping you win the match, and then the minute you have your back turned..."
Bates holds up the now-finished Barbed Wire wrapped Briefcase. Swinging it down forcefully with the next word he utters.
"WHAM! Right on your soft spot! I will cause enough cranial damage that the blood will pour out of you, onto the mat, staining it red with the deceit and disdain I have for your shady tactics. I will show you that two can play this lovely game, by removing a little bit of your hair, scalp, and possibly a few fragments of your SKULL before sauntering off with MY Honor Championship in hand. You see, I raised my voice because it is mine, not yours. You will not be getting it, so long as I hold it. This is a simple fact of life, Pooler. You see, I won this from Spike and the OTHER Gardener after beating you by a fraction of a second making poor Nathan Webb tap out to the Suffocating Cubicle, while you had poor No-Win Everyman on the mat for the one-two...and that's all you got before I walked away with the #1 contender spot and you came away with NOTHING!"
Bates laughs to himself with jollity. He slowly places the Briefcase down and picks up the Honor Championship, before spitting on it to shine the surface a little.
"And I know, after the last two weeks, you are still FUMING over that. But I am the one with this title, not you. But you know..."
Bates holds the title out like he's handing it to Pooler, before dropping it on the ground.
"It doesn't mean anything to me, without your blood spilt all over it, Pooler. I didn't beat anyone, I picked apart broken bodies to win this. Without your blood, your sweat, your tears, I cannot feel satisfied with this trash-can-championship I hold. But you know what I do have to start the bloodbath of my reign as Honor Champion? MY blood."
Bates picks the title back up off the ground, and smiles as he uses the dripping blood on his fingers to scribble the word "Dis" before Honor on the championship, before underlining his name in his own blood.
"Ah, so much better. This looks more familiar to me, doesn't it look better to you, Pooler? I mean, it really shows what an out-of-match makover can do for a championship like this. I really like it more this way. You see, if you play your cards right and come to Picture Perfect next week gunning for my championship, that's all well and good. I promise I'll play fair, as long as the referee is looking. The minute he turns, the DIShonor will begin. The briefcase will taste your flesh. The staplers, the letter openers, all of my office supplies of doom will come out. You see, it's not the Xtreme Championship anymore, it's the Honor Championship. But you know what Spike Kane forgot...what the ref doesn't know...won't hurt him. And also, what happens before and after the two bells, won't hurt anyone either."
Bates' face lights up with a clever and wicked smile as he raises a single finger to his chin, leaving a small smear of blood on it.
"Well...unless that anyone happens to be...YOU! And don't worry, I also have plans for the Locke brothers, Pooler. They probably won't be in much shape when they come to the ring to be trouble for us, anyway. I mean, they seem like such a cohesive team, only one of them is serious and the other is a retard. One of them talks, the other stays silent. It's just so one-sided for us to begin with, why not ERASE them before they get a chance to shine? So be glad you're partnering with me this week. Because the minute the match is over and we have our hands raised in victory. I'll consider the final road to Picture Perfect to have begun, and take you down like the dog you really are. Ta ta, see you at Trauma."
At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures - be what he is. And, above all, accept these things.
Albert Camus