Post by adm on Sept 6, 2011 11:03:21 GMT -6
Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.Oscar Wilde
Congratulations, Spike. Good job on being the Irish Car Bomb on my Saturday Evening plans. Good job on the win, seriously. It means so much to you, why not just come back and kick me in the teeth some more, I mean, it's not like your career is going anywhere right now even after beating me, so it's not like it matters. At ALL.
On to other things, I guess. We have a new contender, with no wins under his belt, who wears a mask. All I can ask is.
WHO ARE YOU?
Seriously, you were so mysterious. You claim to have accolades accounting for just about every title, but you wear that weird helmet all the time, and the white suit. You seem very familiar, I mean, VERY familiar.
I think I recall you being the driver for Jack Hammond a few years back.
That aside, I guess I should ask you...if your middle initial stands for victory, why is it you haven't had more matches. HELL, why is it that you were in, and lost, a dark match two weeks ago at the Pay Per View, then disappeared like a figment of people's imaginations. No segments, no promo vids about your downtime, nothing, just silence.
And I expect it to remain that way, because god forbid the mask talk.
SOOOOO...what can I really say about you? I don't know the man under the mask, well maybe I do, I just can't SEE you. I know that there are two reasons why you'd be wearing a mask, and here they are.
One: You are either hiding your identity to cover up some surprise return from either the supposed grave or retirement or some other embarrassment that kicked you out of here or wrestling in general.
OR
Two: You are so disfigured and deformed under that mask you are just using it to cover the hideous face that would no doubt garner you plenty of jokes at your expense if you were to take it off.
There are other reasons, but I'd like to limit my words to a mouthless visor to a minimal. I mean, I'm seriously not threatened by your facade, so I'm pretty sure whoever you are underneath must not have much more substance.
Also, just an FYI, as the resident fashion critic here today. I'm going to tell you that Labor Day is over, so white is SOOO out.
Hopefully I can hear from your ugly ass soon. I mean, I really don't have much to SAY to you. So go enjoy your little private life, I'm going to go have mine.
****
"Listen, I slipped up again. I know, you're getting sick of me calling. Seriously, Doctor Bachmann, I've been meditating on the scripture like you ask. How come it isn't helping me? Why ISN'T it working? You PROMISED me that it would...Okay, fine. I'll schedule an appointment for later this week. I can catch a quick flight out, no problem. Listen, this is getting serious. My job DEPENDS on this. Thank you."
He hangs up the cell phone and lets out a long sigh. He is not alone in the gym, and his eyes are wandering. There are only men here. Big, sweaty, muscular and oily men. The tight spandex shorts and accompanying squats are acting as a diversion from Bates' usual workout. He can't concentrate. The makeup to cover the mild bruising on his face from the match with Spike is less today than it was Sunday and yesterday. Slowly he is feeling more confident, but about what, we cannot know.
"I really need to find a better gym to work out at. I can't have all this...distraction, around me."
Bates turns to the bench press, keeping his eyes peeled at the men around him. He feels like he's a sinner, walking into a seedy tavern. His mind races with thoughts as he tries to conceal with the mask of a smile, once again, his inner demons. The fight is becoming harder every day. The therapy isn't working, and being back in nCw, alone, he is beginning to struggle with these thoughts more than ever before. He can no longer hide it from sight as well as he used to.
He pushes up on the bar, and a man walks over as he is continuing his workout. Two hundred pounds, up and down ten times as the man stares. He is wearing a "Gold's Gym" tank top, spandex shorts, and looks like he could very well be a bouncer at a ritzy establishment for celebrities jet-setting the current locale.
"You're a really strong man, for frame."
Bates drops the weight after he has done his reps.
"Really? And what kind of frame is that?"
"Medium to small frame. You aren't built like a bodybuilder, but your muscles say you've been working hard to at least try to look one."
"Who says I need to try."
The men exchange a look, one with some eerie body language underneath. Bates' thoughts are racing, he cannot help the pounding in his ears. His face flushes a little with embarrassment, and then he ups the weight and does eight reps of two hundred and twenty.
"Look at those arms. So strong, so lean. I can't believe a man like you has built up such great muscle."
Through his grit teeth, Bates speaks. "I'm a wrestler for nCw, so it's not surprising."
Again Bates returns to his weights. The man is standing closer now, almost on top of Bates as he ups the weight and finishes up on the machine. Two hundred and eighty pounds, four reps. Bates is sweating, not from the workout, but from his stress. There is a noticeable change in his expression. It is one of confusion and deep introspection. We fade from the scene.
****
I can't be myself here, if I were to say what happened, I'd be ostracized even more than I am. I'm not supposed to be like this. If the appointment doesn't help...I may have to resort to harsher methods. I may...
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
Congratulations, Spike. Good job on being the Irish Car Bomb on my Saturday Evening plans. Good job on the win, seriously. It means so much to you, why not just come back and kick me in the teeth some more, I mean, it's not like your career is going anywhere right now even after beating me, so it's not like it matters. At ALL.
On to other things, I guess. We have a new contender, with no wins under his belt, who wears a mask. All I can ask is.
WHO ARE YOU?
Seriously, you were so mysterious. You claim to have accolades accounting for just about every title, but you wear that weird helmet all the time, and the white suit. You seem very familiar, I mean, VERY familiar.
I think I recall you being the driver for Jack Hammond a few years back.
That aside, I guess I should ask you...if your middle initial stands for victory, why is it you haven't had more matches. HELL, why is it that you were in, and lost, a dark match two weeks ago at the Pay Per View, then disappeared like a figment of people's imaginations. No segments, no promo vids about your downtime, nothing, just silence.
And I expect it to remain that way, because god forbid the mask talk.
SOOOOO...what can I really say about you? I don't know the man under the mask, well maybe I do, I just can't SEE you. I know that there are two reasons why you'd be wearing a mask, and here they are.
One: You are either hiding your identity to cover up some surprise return from either the supposed grave or retirement or some other embarrassment that kicked you out of here or wrestling in general.
OR
Two: You are so disfigured and deformed under that mask you are just using it to cover the hideous face that would no doubt garner you plenty of jokes at your expense if you were to take it off.
There are other reasons, but I'd like to limit my words to a mouthless visor to a minimal. I mean, I'm seriously not threatened by your facade, so I'm pretty sure whoever you are underneath must not have much more substance.
Also, just an FYI, as the resident fashion critic here today. I'm going to tell you that Labor Day is over, so white is SOOO out.
Hopefully I can hear from your ugly ass soon. I mean, I really don't have much to SAY to you. So go enjoy your little private life, I'm going to go have mine.
****
"Listen, I slipped up again. I know, you're getting sick of me calling. Seriously, Doctor Bachmann, I've been meditating on the scripture like you ask. How come it isn't helping me? Why ISN'T it working? You PROMISED me that it would...Okay, fine. I'll schedule an appointment for later this week. I can catch a quick flight out, no problem. Listen, this is getting serious. My job DEPENDS on this. Thank you."
He hangs up the cell phone and lets out a long sigh. He is not alone in the gym, and his eyes are wandering. There are only men here. Big, sweaty, muscular and oily men. The tight spandex shorts and accompanying squats are acting as a diversion from Bates' usual workout. He can't concentrate. The makeup to cover the mild bruising on his face from the match with Spike is less today than it was Sunday and yesterday. Slowly he is feeling more confident, but about what, we cannot know.
"I really need to find a better gym to work out at. I can't have all this...distraction, around me."
Bates turns to the bench press, keeping his eyes peeled at the men around him. He feels like he's a sinner, walking into a seedy tavern. His mind races with thoughts as he tries to conceal with the mask of a smile, once again, his inner demons. The fight is becoming harder every day. The therapy isn't working, and being back in nCw, alone, he is beginning to struggle with these thoughts more than ever before. He can no longer hide it from sight as well as he used to.
He pushes up on the bar, and a man walks over as he is continuing his workout. Two hundred pounds, up and down ten times as the man stares. He is wearing a "Gold's Gym" tank top, spandex shorts, and looks like he could very well be a bouncer at a ritzy establishment for celebrities jet-setting the current locale.
"You're a really strong man, for frame."
Bates drops the weight after he has done his reps.
"Really? And what kind of frame is that?"
"Medium to small frame. You aren't built like a bodybuilder, but your muscles say you've been working hard to at least try to look one."
"Who says I need to try."
The men exchange a look, one with some eerie body language underneath. Bates' thoughts are racing, he cannot help the pounding in his ears. His face flushes a little with embarrassment, and then he ups the weight and does eight reps of two hundred and twenty.
"Look at those arms. So strong, so lean. I can't believe a man like you has built up such great muscle."
Through his grit teeth, Bates speaks. "I'm a wrestler for nCw, so it's not surprising."
Again Bates returns to his weights. The man is standing closer now, almost on top of Bates as he ups the weight and finishes up on the machine. Two hundred and eighty pounds, four reps. Bates is sweating, not from the workout, but from his stress. There is a noticeable change in his expression. It is one of confusion and deep introspection. We fade from the scene.
****
I can't be myself here, if I were to say what happened, I'd be ostracized even more than I am. I'm not supposed to be like this. If the appointment doesn't help...I may have to resort to harsher methods. I may...
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions