Post by Jack Hammond on Jan 31, 2010 6:27:07 GMT -6
Another Jack Hammond promo, another dark hotel room. This one is in Los Angeles, The Hamster himself framed in silhouette, slowly and deliberately pacing back and forth in front of the wide window that looks down onto the sprawl that is one of the biggest cities in the world, the lights twinkling down below. He eventually stops his pacing, turning his head towards the camera, his expression mostly hidden by shadows, but somehow you can tell he's smiling.
"So it seems I'm still yet to break this nasty habit of mine, coming in rather late to the party when everyone else seems to be gathering the coats, ready for the off, in a figurative sense of course. Doesn't help me all that much when I give my opponents free reign to rib on me for all they're worth for nearly a whole week and all I've got to give is a few minutes in a hotel room with the lights turned off."
He pauses, scratching his head before starting his walking back and forth again, his hands moving to try to help move as well as accentuate his quirky thought processes along as he starts off again.
"Though it seems that only one of my opponents has really taken the opportunity to take advantage of my indiscretion to the full extent, but from what I can make out, despite all of his time and effort spent, he hasn't really said much at all."
He holds up his hands defensively, stopping in mid-stride.
"Okay, Mr. Star is on record, arguing with some poor teenager over the status of his Earl Grey teabags, something so English it puts me off my breakfast crumpet, as well as the proper procedure to shoot a promo, before going on to talk about the property market for a bit. But as far as he's concerned with this match, it seems an X-Division Title shot on the line isn't getting him salivating as it would some others."
He shrugs his shoulders moving away from the window now to sit on the edge of his hotel bed, plopping down with a soft thud to gaze out of the window momentarily.
"Okay, so a match during Wired that has a title shot up for grabs may not seem as exciting as, say, the Dragon's Den match that we'll see later, but quite frankly if your mood is nonchalant and casual by playing off the people you're facing like Mr. Star has done as if we're some distraction, some sort of annoyance to be dealt with, that kind of gets my goat."
He chuckles a little, shaking his head before sighing ruefully.
"I admit, I don't have the best record for attendance at the moment. I'll put my hands up right now and say that I've had shots I've squandered due to procrastination or bone-idleness on my part. But hubris is not something I've suffered, and not something I'd let myself fall victim to, just because it could happen to be that my opponent has decided to keep his lip well and truly buttoned up."
He leans back on his bed, propping himself up on his arms as he continues to stare out of the window.
"Mr. Red, for example. Sure, he may look more ridiculous than, say, Steve Awesome in a tutu, Kole Kaos hugging a kitten or me with a title belt around my waist, but he's not someone to ignore. A veritable little powerhouse despite the lycra, but mocking skin-tight suits and masks won't cut it this time, even with his claims that there are 'none betta' than him, he's got very little to crow about these days it seems. Who knows why he's refusing to speak this week, despite the fact his is very well known for having one of the biggest mouths in nCw. All we know, but are quietly grateful for, is that our heads are able to ache a little less this week, though if he hears this, it could be that come after the match, my head will be aching quite significantly after he stomps it into the canvas a few times."
There's a quiet snickering from Hammond at his familiar brand of dry, self-depricating humor before he settles down again, silence reigning for a moment before he quietly pipes up again.
"I'd be willing to put my neck out by saying that Mr. Red's catchphrase has been aped by many of his opponents, cut up, edited and used in a manner to annoy him. As much as I'd like to use that as snappy way to end my little taunt/rant, I'd instead like to say 'good luck'. I know that you won't grant any my way, Red, but it just happens to be in my nature."
Hammond shrugs his slim shoudlers before scratching at his scalp once more.
"If I'm honest, I'm not really fancying my chances despite all of my horsing around. I don't have the greatest record when it comes to multiple-man matches, seeing that at one point in every one of those matches I'm in, I tend to get blindsided, hit with a finisher, pinned or tossed aside and back in my locker room, tallying up the number of bruises on my face before I can even blink. It doesn't help when you've got people like Star, Red and of course, Freakke."
He shifts, moving forwards to hunch over, clasping his hands together, wringing them as he cants his head, remembering their previous encounter.
"The last time, he was a little different, being less the ringleader and more a clown. I was the man who last got to wrestle with his old, pie-throwing, joy buzzing persona. And I was the man who lost against him. Something that's still so fresh I could probably point out which bruise on my body where he felled me, but not something I'm holding a grudge over. He could afford to not use something so cliched as the line about cans of the whoop-ass variety, but I'm not one to point the finger of blame. So aside from corny lines and the fact he seems to be another fan of the melodramatic and the face-paint placed in my way, he's quite the wrestler; not a bad chap to have in your corner and quite the problem if he's in the other one. I'm not going to stoop so low as to take cracks at his appearance or his persona..."
He glances over his shoulder at the camera filming him, the cheeky, childish smirk on his face clearly there despite the darkness.
"...lord knows there's been enough of that bandied around nCw to know that anything I say will just be accused of being plagiarism. So all I can say to Freakke is 'good luck'. The show must go on and it will be quite the spectacle when we butt heads once more, though I don't intend to let this shot run away with the circus."
Hammond nods to himself, his head swivelling back around to gaze out of the window for a moment before he springs rather energetically to his feet, starting his little attempt to wear a line in the carpet once again.
"So back to Mr. Star. It seems his attention has been elsewhere this past week, what with his forgetting of a few things. I know he's been busy racking up wins in the same way an idiotic rice-rocket kid racks up speeding tickets, but he seems to think that just because I've failed to respond to any of his thought-provoking questions that I'll be a pushover."
A glimmer of light seems to finally play across Hammond's face, an eyebrow arched as far as it will go in a look of utter incredulity.
"It's not as if my lack of words on a particular week is the same as refusing to respond to an RSVP. I've still got to turn up and compete, and though it's some odd coincidence that people who fail to set out a promo at all tend to lose for some reason, I still compete. Perhaps there's some gland in me that shuts down my ability to fight if I haven't yammered my jaw off for an appropriate amount of time each week, or my head's too full of crap I didn't get to spout out and leaves me with a significant speed disadvantage. Either way, I'm still in the ring. And don't think I'd go easy on a fellow Britisher. Does anyone else remember Christian Kane?"
There's a rather uncomfortable pause as Hammond asks the question to nobody in particular before he scratches his head.
"...actually, neither do I."
He suppresses his chuckle, shakes his head, stopping his constant pacing as he places his hands on his hips, facing the camera.
"Okay, it may be I'm banging my head against a brick wall here by saying this, but I'm not going to be taking this match lying down. It's a chance to once again hold a title I was proud to claim and something that I'd worked so hard to capture the first time around. The X-Division Title may not have the glamor of the World Title, it may not have the camaraderie inducing feeling the Tag Titles bring and it may not have the wonderfully blood-soaked history of the Xtr-sorry, 'Honor' Championship. But it is nCw gold; prime real estate in this business to stake your name on and be remembered. And if I have to beat three other guys to even get a chance at competing for it once again, I will do all I can. Beating Steve Awesome last week, something that Mr. Star seems to have missed, was the momentum-boost I needed. It made me remember what I've achieved and how hard I've worked to even get close to chances like this. But those records mean nothing."
He simply shrugs this time, seemingly letting that information sink in for a moment.
"The titles I've held, the people I've beat, the places I've been and the many, many crowds who have chanted my name in unison...they all come to nought with this match. I don't intend to use those memories as some sort of incentive, to get back to the 'glory days'. I don't want to even remember these memories as my 'glory days'. I want to go further, to be better, to become an icon, a legend. And it all starts with having to beat either Paul Star, Freakke or Mr. Red."
The Hamster's teeth seem to gleam in the dim light of his room as he smiles broadly, his eyes twinkling with that familiar Hammond confidence.
"How hard can it be?"
You can almost hear the groans of people who were probably expecting that, as Hammond moves back towards the window, almost pressing his nose against the glass. His eyes seem to alight upon a single landmark that sits off in the distance, the Staples Centre, the smile on his face waning slightly.
"So good luck to one and all. Whether you think you're 'betta', if you intend to be the 'king' or you're bringing 'attitude' to the party, know only one thing if nothing else; you'd better be ready for the me."
And on that rather cringe-worthy ending, Hammond smiles at the camera, the darkness of a fade out showing the lights past his window twinkling out one-by-one until there is nought but black on the screen.
"So it seems I'm still yet to break this nasty habit of mine, coming in rather late to the party when everyone else seems to be gathering the coats, ready for the off, in a figurative sense of course. Doesn't help me all that much when I give my opponents free reign to rib on me for all they're worth for nearly a whole week and all I've got to give is a few minutes in a hotel room with the lights turned off."
He pauses, scratching his head before starting his walking back and forth again, his hands moving to try to help move as well as accentuate his quirky thought processes along as he starts off again.
"Though it seems that only one of my opponents has really taken the opportunity to take advantage of my indiscretion to the full extent, but from what I can make out, despite all of his time and effort spent, he hasn't really said much at all."
He holds up his hands defensively, stopping in mid-stride.
"Okay, Mr. Star is on record, arguing with some poor teenager over the status of his Earl Grey teabags, something so English it puts me off my breakfast crumpet, as well as the proper procedure to shoot a promo, before going on to talk about the property market for a bit. But as far as he's concerned with this match, it seems an X-Division Title shot on the line isn't getting him salivating as it would some others."
He shrugs his shoulders moving away from the window now to sit on the edge of his hotel bed, plopping down with a soft thud to gaze out of the window momentarily.
"Okay, so a match during Wired that has a title shot up for grabs may not seem as exciting as, say, the Dragon's Den match that we'll see later, but quite frankly if your mood is nonchalant and casual by playing off the people you're facing like Mr. Star has done as if we're some distraction, some sort of annoyance to be dealt with, that kind of gets my goat."
He chuckles a little, shaking his head before sighing ruefully.
"I admit, I don't have the best record for attendance at the moment. I'll put my hands up right now and say that I've had shots I've squandered due to procrastination or bone-idleness on my part. But hubris is not something I've suffered, and not something I'd let myself fall victim to, just because it could happen to be that my opponent has decided to keep his lip well and truly buttoned up."
He leans back on his bed, propping himself up on his arms as he continues to stare out of the window.
"Mr. Red, for example. Sure, he may look more ridiculous than, say, Steve Awesome in a tutu, Kole Kaos hugging a kitten or me with a title belt around my waist, but he's not someone to ignore. A veritable little powerhouse despite the lycra, but mocking skin-tight suits and masks won't cut it this time, even with his claims that there are 'none betta' than him, he's got very little to crow about these days it seems. Who knows why he's refusing to speak this week, despite the fact his is very well known for having one of the biggest mouths in nCw. All we know, but are quietly grateful for, is that our heads are able to ache a little less this week, though if he hears this, it could be that come after the match, my head will be aching quite significantly after he stomps it into the canvas a few times."
There's a quiet snickering from Hammond at his familiar brand of dry, self-depricating humor before he settles down again, silence reigning for a moment before he quietly pipes up again.
"I'd be willing to put my neck out by saying that Mr. Red's catchphrase has been aped by many of his opponents, cut up, edited and used in a manner to annoy him. As much as I'd like to use that as snappy way to end my little taunt/rant, I'd instead like to say 'good luck'. I know that you won't grant any my way, Red, but it just happens to be in my nature."
Hammond shrugs his slim shoudlers before scratching at his scalp once more.
"If I'm honest, I'm not really fancying my chances despite all of my horsing around. I don't have the greatest record when it comes to multiple-man matches, seeing that at one point in every one of those matches I'm in, I tend to get blindsided, hit with a finisher, pinned or tossed aside and back in my locker room, tallying up the number of bruises on my face before I can even blink. It doesn't help when you've got people like Star, Red and of course, Freakke."
He shifts, moving forwards to hunch over, clasping his hands together, wringing them as he cants his head, remembering their previous encounter.
"The last time, he was a little different, being less the ringleader and more a clown. I was the man who last got to wrestle with his old, pie-throwing, joy buzzing persona. And I was the man who lost against him. Something that's still so fresh I could probably point out which bruise on my body where he felled me, but not something I'm holding a grudge over. He could afford to not use something so cliched as the line about cans of the whoop-ass variety, but I'm not one to point the finger of blame. So aside from corny lines and the fact he seems to be another fan of the melodramatic and the face-paint placed in my way, he's quite the wrestler; not a bad chap to have in your corner and quite the problem if he's in the other one. I'm not going to stoop so low as to take cracks at his appearance or his persona..."
He glances over his shoulder at the camera filming him, the cheeky, childish smirk on his face clearly there despite the darkness.
"...lord knows there's been enough of that bandied around nCw to know that anything I say will just be accused of being plagiarism. So all I can say to Freakke is 'good luck'. The show must go on and it will be quite the spectacle when we butt heads once more, though I don't intend to let this shot run away with the circus."
Hammond nods to himself, his head swivelling back around to gaze out of the window for a moment before he springs rather energetically to his feet, starting his little attempt to wear a line in the carpet once again.
"So back to Mr. Star. It seems his attention has been elsewhere this past week, what with his forgetting of a few things. I know he's been busy racking up wins in the same way an idiotic rice-rocket kid racks up speeding tickets, but he seems to think that just because I've failed to respond to any of his thought-provoking questions that I'll be a pushover."
A glimmer of light seems to finally play across Hammond's face, an eyebrow arched as far as it will go in a look of utter incredulity.
"It's not as if my lack of words on a particular week is the same as refusing to respond to an RSVP. I've still got to turn up and compete, and though it's some odd coincidence that people who fail to set out a promo at all tend to lose for some reason, I still compete. Perhaps there's some gland in me that shuts down my ability to fight if I haven't yammered my jaw off for an appropriate amount of time each week, or my head's too full of crap I didn't get to spout out and leaves me with a significant speed disadvantage. Either way, I'm still in the ring. And don't think I'd go easy on a fellow Britisher. Does anyone else remember Christian Kane?"
There's a rather uncomfortable pause as Hammond asks the question to nobody in particular before he scratches his head.
"...actually, neither do I."
He suppresses his chuckle, shakes his head, stopping his constant pacing as he places his hands on his hips, facing the camera.
"Okay, it may be I'm banging my head against a brick wall here by saying this, but I'm not going to be taking this match lying down. It's a chance to once again hold a title I was proud to claim and something that I'd worked so hard to capture the first time around. The X-Division Title may not have the glamor of the World Title, it may not have the camaraderie inducing feeling the Tag Titles bring and it may not have the wonderfully blood-soaked history of the Xtr-sorry, 'Honor' Championship. But it is nCw gold; prime real estate in this business to stake your name on and be remembered. And if I have to beat three other guys to even get a chance at competing for it once again, I will do all I can. Beating Steve Awesome last week, something that Mr. Star seems to have missed, was the momentum-boost I needed. It made me remember what I've achieved and how hard I've worked to even get close to chances like this. But those records mean nothing."
He simply shrugs this time, seemingly letting that information sink in for a moment.
"The titles I've held, the people I've beat, the places I've been and the many, many crowds who have chanted my name in unison...they all come to nought with this match. I don't intend to use those memories as some sort of incentive, to get back to the 'glory days'. I don't want to even remember these memories as my 'glory days'. I want to go further, to be better, to become an icon, a legend. And it all starts with having to beat either Paul Star, Freakke or Mr. Red."
The Hamster's teeth seem to gleam in the dim light of his room as he smiles broadly, his eyes twinkling with that familiar Hammond confidence.
"How hard can it be?"
You can almost hear the groans of people who were probably expecting that, as Hammond moves back towards the window, almost pressing his nose against the glass. His eyes seem to alight upon a single landmark that sits off in the distance, the Staples Centre, the smile on his face waning slightly.
"So good luck to one and all. Whether you think you're 'betta', if you intend to be the 'king' or you're bringing 'attitude' to the party, know only one thing if nothing else; you'd better be ready for the me."
And on that rather cringe-worthy ending, Hammond smiles at the camera, the darkness of a fade out showing the lights past his window twinkling out one-by-one until there is nought but black on the screen.