Post by JJ Biggs on Oct 19, 2012 22:59:03 GMT -6
And so it begins. I've had two matches in this company, which translates into two victories. Last week, I beat the "King of Mediocrity" Joe Everyman, with ease, I might add, and this week, I'm moving on to bigger and better things. My ascension to the top of this company is in progress and as far as I'm concerned, it's full steam ahead. I'm not going to allow anything, or anyone, to stand in my way because I have one goal and one goal only, which is to become the nCw World Champion. And I will, I promise all of you that I will. You see, when you're the best, things fall into place as you want them to. Even after the knee surgeries and various injuries throughout my career, I am still "The Featured Attraction" and I am the reason the wrestling industry is what it is today.
But hey, don't just take it from me. You see, this week I'm competing against two individuals I know very, very well. In a triple-threat bout, it's going to be Nighthawk, Jake Keeton, and myself going at it. These two individuals have watched me succeed for years. They've had a first row seat, witnessing all of the ass kickings I've handed out over the past few years. And yes, even the two of them have been on the receiving end of some of those beatings. See, we're all very familiar with each other -- we have a history, you could say -- and at Trauma, I'm going to bring our story to the nCw ring, where the conclusion of the story will be very similar: "The Featured Attraction" doing what he does best: winning.
First, I'm going to talk about Nighthawk, "The Wrestling Machine," "Man of 1000 Holds," "Punk Ass Bitch," etc. -- the man has too many names to list. See, Nighthawk, you're an enigma, really. You're like a movie with a twist ending; I've never really been able to understand you. What I mean by that is you're obviously very talented inside the ring, let's face it -- you've forgotten more wrestling maneuvers than I care to learn. But somehow, for some reason, you've always managed to underachieve. Even when you do something successful, you're still failing at the same time. It's crazy, I mean, you're truly the only individual that can do good and suck ass at the same time. And while I can't completely figure you out and come to a full understanding of your failures, I will say one thing: perhaps a big reason you've lived a career of limited success is because you allow the wrestling fans to cup your testicles.
You see, you're in the wrestling business for the fans. You want to "give them the best show possible," week in and week out, simply because that's who you are. And that's where the problem lies. When you do this for the fans, you're doing it for the wrong reasons. You try to do everything the right way, which actually turns out to be the wrong way. When you let the fans bend you over, you ass gets blasted -- literally. You think these fans care about you, Nighthawk? Hell no! They'll chant your name, cheer like hell for you, but they will forget who you are the day you hang up your boots, Nighthawk. That's the problem with wrestling fans.
With me? I don't have that problem. The fans love me, but I hate them. They boo me because I want them to boo me. I've earned a following by not giving a ****, you know? The fans are meaningless to me. I wrestle because I want to wrestle. I win championships because I am that damn good. I don't care about the fans. And it's because of this style that I will always be remembered. It's because of this that even though the fans boo me, they really respect and appreciate me a hell of a lot more than they do you, Nighthawk.
I guess my point is this: you and I have had completely different careers. We've taken different paths to get to our current positions. I've been in control of my journey from day one. I've been winning matches and championships since the beginning. You? You're hot one moment, cold the next. You're as consistent as a dollar store condom, Nighthawk. You're not in the driver's seat, you're riding bitch on a motorcycle. You're nothing -- and at Trauma, I'm going to prove the fact by destroying you without even breaking a sweat.
But hey, I can't allow myself to get completely distracted. There is, after all, another individual in this match. Jake freakin' Keeton, man I hate your guts. You know that already, though. But you know something? It would make my day to smash your head with my boot over and over again. I want to use your brains to paint the canvas. And once I'm done doing that, I want to force your teenage son to pick up the pieces of your skull. I paint a pretty picture, don't I?
But what can I say, while I do want to destroy you inside the ring, I'll be content with just picking up the victory. I have bigger fish to fry than you, Jake. I have no desire to wrestle you. I mean, come on, you barely got past the scraps I left for you last week. It's gotten to the point where it's a waste of time to even be inside the same wrestling ring as you. You're body has been decaying for years. Some of us are able to handle the pain, you, on the other hand, are a sad, sad man still trying to continue in a sport that you don't deserve to be in.
I'm willing to put my hatred for you aside, Jake. Just stay out of my way at Trauma. I'll destroy Nighthawk, pick up the victory, and we can all go home to our respective lives happy, you know? How about that? Sounds like a plan to me. But know this, Jake -- if you do get in my way, I won't hesitate to knock your head off your shoulders. I won't hesitate one bit.
But hey, I guess we'll find out how everything will go down at Trauma, won't we? I look forward to seeing you ladies in the ring. Bring your "A" game because you're going to need it simply to survive until the end of the match.
-----
There isn't a cloud in the sky, allowing the sun to shine as bright as it pleases. A cool breeze bouncing in the open keeps the temperature comfortable, allowing various individuals to tend to their gardens, mow their lawns, etc. It's a beautiful day and as if he agrees, Michael Bourne has a huge grin on his face as he approaches the home owned by "The Featured Attraction" JJ Biggs. He brings his closed fit up to knock, but the door opens quickly, revealing a half-naked woman scurrying past Bourne, stumbling her way down the steps.
Biggs: What's your problem? Don't leave your stuff lying around my house!
ZING! Bourne has to matrix out of the way as a six-inch heel flies by his head. The woman stops to pick up the shoe, dropping some items from her grasp as she struggles to gather her things. Bourne, with a confused expression on his face, enters his friends house and closes the door behind him.
Bourne: I have two questions for you. Now, they're similar, but yet very different. First off, who in the hell was that? And secondly, what in the hell was that?
Biggs: Her? Oh. Don't worry about it. She's just this bitch I picked up at the bar last night. I told her the rules, Michael. We had an understanding, she's not supposed to be here in the morning, you hear me? I told her that! And you know what? She didn't listen. She was a dud in the sheets, anyway.
Bourne: Wait, what?
Biggs: A dud, Michael. You know, she wasn't very good? Did you graduate high school?
"The Featured Attraction" shakes his head as he turns on his heel and walks into his kitchen. Bourne looks completely lost, as he tries to replay the last five minutes in his head. He sighs loudly before following Biggs into the kitchen. In true JJ form, he's already grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and is in the process of making himself a glass.
Bourne: Are you kidding me, JJ? It's nine-thirty in the morning!
Biggs: You're right, it is pretty early. Which reminds me, what in the hell are you doing here?
Bourne: It's Friday morning, we're supposed to go to the gym today, man. You have a big match this weekend. You really need to pull yourself together. You look, smell, and sound like ****.
Biggs: What are you talking about?
Bourne: Just -- I don't know, JJ -- you! You're not going about this correctly, you know?
Michael pauses for a moment, as he watches intently as Biggs reaches into the cupboard and grabs a bottle of medication. He quickly drops a couple of pills into his palm, throws them in his mouth, and washes them away with a drink of Jack.
Bourne: You see what I am talking about? You pop those pills like candy. You drink Jack Daniels twenty-four hours a day. You rarely hit the gym. You don't prepare for your matches. I don't know what's going on, man. You're more interested in women than championships.
Biggs: Hey, screw you, Michael. What have you done, huh? You hit the lottery ten years ago and threw it all away on a wrestling company. That's it -- that's your claim to fame, but me? I've been dominating everyone in my path for over twelve years. I've won more than championships than I care to remember. I've done it all -- and you know what? I keep doing it because I want to.
He pauses for a moment, his cheeks are red and shaking with anger as he stares daggers through his friend. The thing about Biggs is he's willing to joke and mess around, but if you make him mad, he's got a quick trigger and a huge anger problem. Bourne opens his mouth as if he wants to reply, but JJ cuts him off.
Biggs: But I am a mortal, Michael. My knees are killing me. I can barely get out of bed in the morning, but I am able to do what I do because of these "pills that I pop like candy." They get me through my freaking day, Michael. And the Jack? Well, he and I are good friends. And you're right, I don't go to the gym as often as I used to. I don't watch videos on my opponents, I don't scout their matches -- I don't do any of that. You know why? 'Cause I don't need to. I'd rather **** their wives and make the bitch cook me breakfast the next day.
He pauses once more, taking a moment to grab his glass of whiskey and finish off the remaining liquid.
Biggs: That's just the way things are, Michael. I've paid my dues, if I want to drink some Jack Daniels, pop a few pain killers, and sit in my living room with my hand down my pants instead of hitting the gym, I'm going to do it.
Bourne: (clearing his throat) I respect that, JJ. I wasn't trying to start an argument with you. I was simply telling you, as a friend, what I've been seeing lately. Sometimes your actions concern me, but as long as you feel like you're in the driver's seat, I am not going to stand in your way.
Biggs: (nodding) I appreciate that, man. I'm sorry for yelling at you. You're a grown man. But you know what? It's water under the bridge. You and I have known each other for years. No issues between us. You wanna get some breakfast?
Bourne: Sure, man, whatever you want to do.
Biggs: Cool, let me put my shoes on and we'll go.
The Miami native walks back into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. He reaches under the coffee table and grabs his shoes. Bourne follows him out of the kitchen and leans against the front door as he waits.
Bourne: I do have a question for you, man. What about Taylor?
Biggs: (confused) Swift? I'd bend her over.
Bourne: (shaking his head) No, dude, Taylor -- you know, the chick you've been seeing the past couple of months? Last week, you said you may be interested in something more with her.
Biggs: What? That doesn't sound like me.
Bourne: You said it! I mean, you were drunk as ****, but it came out of your mouth.
Biggs: (shaking his head) Nonsense. That must have been Jack talking; he says the craziest things. She's nothing more than a hot piece of ass.
And with that, Biggs gets to his feet and walks towards the door.
Bourne: (shrugs) Whatever you say, man.
Biggs nods in response as Bourne moves out of the way. He opens the door and exits, with Bourne following close behind, and Michael closes the door behind them.
But hey, don't just take it from me. You see, this week I'm competing against two individuals I know very, very well. In a triple-threat bout, it's going to be Nighthawk, Jake Keeton, and myself going at it. These two individuals have watched me succeed for years. They've had a first row seat, witnessing all of the ass kickings I've handed out over the past few years. And yes, even the two of them have been on the receiving end of some of those beatings. See, we're all very familiar with each other -- we have a history, you could say -- and at Trauma, I'm going to bring our story to the nCw ring, where the conclusion of the story will be very similar: "The Featured Attraction" doing what he does best: winning.
First, I'm going to talk about Nighthawk, "The Wrestling Machine," "Man of 1000 Holds," "Punk Ass Bitch," etc. -- the man has too many names to list. See, Nighthawk, you're an enigma, really. You're like a movie with a twist ending; I've never really been able to understand you. What I mean by that is you're obviously very talented inside the ring, let's face it -- you've forgotten more wrestling maneuvers than I care to learn. But somehow, for some reason, you've always managed to underachieve. Even when you do something successful, you're still failing at the same time. It's crazy, I mean, you're truly the only individual that can do good and suck ass at the same time. And while I can't completely figure you out and come to a full understanding of your failures, I will say one thing: perhaps a big reason you've lived a career of limited success is because you allow the wrestling fans to cup your testicles.
You see, you're in the wrestling business for the fans. You want to "give them the best show possible," week in and week out, simply because that's who you are. And that's where the problem lies. When you do this for the fans, you're doing it for the wrong reasons. You try to do everything the right way, which actually turns out to be the wrong way. When you let the fans bend you over, you ass gets blasted -- literally. You think these fans care about you, Nighthawk? Hell no! They'll chant your name, cheer like hell for you, but they will forget who you are the day you hang up your boots, Nighthawk. That's the problem with wrestling fans.
With me? I don't have that problem. The fans love me, but I hate them. They boo me because I want them to boo me. I've earned a following by not giving a ****, you know? The fans are meaningless to me. I wrestle because I want to wrestle. I win championships because I am that damn good. I don't care about the fans. And it's because of this style that I will always be remembered. It's because of this that even though the fans boo me, they really respect and appreciate me a hell of a lot more than they do you, Nighthawk.
I guess my point is this: you and I have had completely different careers. We've taken different paths to get to our current positions. I've been in control of my journey from day one. I've been winning matches and championships since the beginning. You? You're hot one moment, cold the next. You're as consistent as a dollar store condom, Nighthawk. You're not in the driver's seat, you're riding bitch on a motorcycle. You're nothing -- and at Trauma, I'm going to prove the fact by destroying you without even breaking a sweat.
But hey, I can't allow myself to get completely distracted. There is, after all, another individual in this match. Jake freakin' Keeton, man I hate your guts. You know that already, though. But you know something? It would make my day to smash your head with my boot over and over again. I want to use your brains to paint the canvas. And once I'm done doing that, I want to force your teenage son to pick up the pieces of your skull. I paint a pretty picture, don't I?
But what can I say, while I do want to destroy you inside the ring, I'll be content with just picking up the victory. I have bigger fish to fry than you, Jake. I have no desire to wrestle you. I mean, come on, you barely got past the scraps I left for you last week. It's gotten to the point where it's a waste of time to even be inside the same wrestling ring as you. You're body has been decaying for years. Some of us are able to handle the pain, you, on the other hand, are a sad, sad man still trying to continue in a sport that you don't deserve to be in.
I'm willing to put my hatred for you aside, Jake. Just stay out of my way at Trauma. I'll destroy Nighthawk, pick up the victory, and we can all go home to our respective lives happy, you know? How about that? Sounds like a plan to me. But know this, Jake -- if you do get in my way, I won't hesitate to knock your head off your shoulders. I won't hesitate one bit.
But hey, I guess we'll find out how everything will go down at Trauma, won't we? I look forward to seeing you ladies in the ring. Bring your "A" game because you're going to need it simply to survive until the end of the match.
-----
There isn't a cloud in the sky, allowing the sun to shine as bright as it pleases. A cool breeze bouncing in the open keeps the temperature comfortable, allowing various individuals to tend to their gardens, mow their lawns, etc. It's a beautiful day and as if he agrees, Michael Bourne has a huge grin on his face as he approaches the home owned by "The Featured Attraction" JJ Biggs. He brings his closed fit up to knock, but the door opens quickly, revealing a half-naked woman scurrying past Bourne, stumbling her way down the steps.
Biggs: What's your problem? Don't leave your stuff lying around my house!
ZING! Bourne has to matrix out of the way as a six-inch heel flies by his head. The woman stops to pick up the shoe, dropping some items from her grasp as she struggles to gather her things. Bourne, with a confused expression on his face, enters his friends house and closes the door behind him.
Bourne: I have two questions for you. Now, they're similar, but yet very different. First off, who in the hell was that? And secondly, what in the hell was that?
Biggs: Her? Oh. Don't worry about it. She's just this bitch I picked up at the bar last night. I told her the rules, Michael. We had an understanding, she's not supposed to be here in the morning, you hear me? I told her that! And you know what? She didn't listen. She was a dud in the sheets, anyway.
Bourne: Wait, what?
Biggs: A dud, Michael. You know, she wasn't very good? Did you graduate high school?
"The Featured Attraction" shakes his head as he turns on his heel and walks into his kitchen. Bourne looks completely lost, as he tries to replay the last five minutes in his head. He sighs loudly before following Biggs into the kitchen. In true JJ form, he's already grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and is in the process of making himself a glass.
Bourne: Are you kidding me, JJ? It's nine-thirty in the morning!
Biggs: You're right, it is pretty early. Which reminds me, what in the hell are you doing here?
Bourne: It's Friday morning, we're supposed to go to the gym today, man. You have a big match this weekend. You really need to pull yourself together. You look, smell, and sound like ****.
Biggs: What are you talking about?
Bourne: Just -- I don't know, JJ -- you! You're not going about this correctly, you know?
Michael pauses for a moment, as he watches intently as Biggs reaches into the cupboard and grabs a bottle of medication. He quickly drops a couple of pills into his palm, throws them in his mouth, and washes them away with a drink of Jack.
Bourne: You see what I am talking about? You pop those pills like candy. You drink Jack Daniels twenty-four hours a day. You rarely hit the gym. You don't prepare for your matches. I don't know what's going on, man. You're more interested in women than championships.
Biggs: Hey, screw you, Michael. What have you done, huh? You hit the lottery ten years ago and threw it all away on a wrestling company. That's it -- that's your claim to fame, but me? I've been dominating everyone in my path for over twelve years. I've won more than championships than I care to remember. I've done it all -- and you know what? I keep doing it because I want to.
He pauses for a moment, his cheeks are red and shaking with anger as he stares daggers through his friend. The thing about Biggs is he's willing to joke and mess around, but if you make him mad, he's got a quick trigger and a huge anger problem. Bourne opens his mouth as if he wants to reply, but JJ cuts him off.
Biggs: But I am a mortal, Michael. My knees are killing me. I can barely get out of bed in the morning, but I am able to do what I do because of these "pills that I pop like candy." They get me through my freaking day, Michael. And the Jack? Well, he and I are good friends. And you're right, I don't go to the gym as often as I used to. I don't watch videos on my opponents, I don't scout their matches -- I don't do any of that. You know why? 'Cause I don't need to. I'd rather **** their wives and make the bitch cook me breakfast the next day.
He pauses once more, taking a moment to grab his glass of whiskey and finish off the remaining liquid.
Biggs: That's just the way things are, Michael. I've paid my dues, if I want to drink some Jack Daniels, pop a few pain killers, and sit in my living room with my hand down my pants instead of hitting the gym, I'm going to do it.
Bourne: (clearing his throat) I respect that, JJ. I wasn't trying to start an argument with you. I was simply telling you, as a friend, what I've been seeing lately. Sometimes your actions concern me, but as long as you feel like you're in the driver's seat, I am not going to stand in your way.
Biggs: (nodding) I appreciate that, man. I'm sorry for yelling at you. You're a grown man. But you know what? It's water under the bridge. You and I have known each other for years. No issues between us. You wanna get some breakfast?
Bourne: Sure, man, whatever you want to do.
Biggs: Cool, let me put my shoes on and we'll go.
The Miami native walks back into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. He reaches under the coffee table and grabs his shoes. Bourne follows him out of the kitchen and leans against the front door as he waits.
Bourne: I do have a question for you, man. What about Taylor?
Biggs: (confused) Swift? I'd bend her over.
Bourne: (shaking his head) No, dude, Taylor -- you know, the chick you've been seeing the past couple of months? Last week, you said you may be interested in something more with her.
Biggs: What? That doesn't sound like me.
Bourne: You said it! I mean, you were drunk as ****, but it came out of your mouth.
Biggs: (shaking his head) Nonsense. That must have been Jack talking; he says the craziest things. She's nothing more than a hot piece of ass.
And with that, Biggs gets to his feet and walks towards the door.
Bourne: (shrugs) Whatever you say, man.
Biggs nods in response as Bourne moves out of the way. He opens the door and exits, with Bourne following close behind, and Michael closes the door behind them.