Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Apr 28, 2010 0:58:34 GMT -6
We open up on a much different scene than the first Andrew Jacobsen promo of A Night To Remember week. No Chad this time. Just Andrew and his title, sitting on a bench in Central Park, late at night. Or early in the morning, either one. He looks at the title, his nameplate. Andrew drifts back to an earlier time...the night he got his belt back from Paul Star. He remembers helping Paul back up and raising his hand after the match. Andrew sighs, bringing himself back to the present. His match with Alex Jones. One shot. One opportunity to prove himself. This is the night he goes hard and proves he can hang with...
Andrew snorts to himself as he replays what Alex said in his mind. He looks at the title belt that sits on his lap, grinning. Andrew looks up to the sky again, seeing the blank sky instead of the brilliant starscape that a country sky would have.
“You know what, Alex? I don't have anything to prove to you. I don't have to prove that I'm better than you, because I know I am. If you want to douche it up, then feel free. I'm just going to be comfortable in the fact that after this Sunday, when all is said and done, and the smoke clears from the battlefield, I will rise above and remain champion. Here's a bit of your own medicine: Hey, Alex. Remember that time you sucked? Oh...that's always. Never mind."
Andrew grins to himself, sighing. He takes a deep breath of the cool night air, feeling it bring an almost purifying effect to his body (ironic, considering NYC's air quality.)
“There's something about pay-per-views that brings out the best in me. I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that I know hundreds of thousands of people spent their hard-earned money to watch us wrestle. In any case, being on a grander stage lights a competitive fire in me. And being at A Night To Remember, the biggest stage of the year? If Metamorphosis lit a fire, then A Night To Remember has lit a firestorm. Between your words and the anticipation, I know I can't let anyone down, least of all the fans.”
Andrew grins, shifting the title belt under one arm. He idly drums on the back of the bench with his free hand's fingers, smiling still. Andrew taps out the rhythm of his entrance music, “Indestructible”, for some inexplicable reason. He catches himself doing this and grins, as if he's the cat that caught the canary.
“I thought I was in a slump, Alex. But I see now. What I need is a match like this. One where I can actually get into it and motivated. You know why I'm not taping myself in the gym, working out? Because I don't want to waste people's time with that. If I'm exercising, I can hardly devote all of my attention to talking. Speaking of talking, you seriously said I was like a five-year old with Down's syndrome? I've dealt with some classless figures in my time here. I've gone up against Rob Diamond, for crissakes—and won, just to remind you. But that has to be one of the single most blatantly grasping-for-straws BONEHEADED insults I've ever heard. Even Jason was more creative than that. As for your question as to whether I'm going to be the hero and stop you: yeah. Yeah, I am. Also, the Batman TV series was from the 1960s. Get your damn facts right if you're going to insult me.”
Andrew sets the title belt down now, sitting up fully. He brushes back his hair a bit, looking at a couple playing with their dog in another part of the park. Andrew smiles, knowing that they could be among the millions watching and cheering when Sunday rolled around. He lets out a low whistle to himself.
“So, all the vets think you can beat me? Well, they probably thought Rob was going to beat me too. And you saw how that turned out. I have a history of defying the odds. Some of the older WRESTLERS—because if there's one thing I hate, it's calling the men and women who go out there with us and work their asses off a stupid pseudo-American Idol thing like “Superstars”—understand that. Not all of them do. But that's okay. I'm aiming to cause some waves in betting pools. I'm planning on being what's known in professional sports terms as a bracket-buster: someone or, in the sports case, a team, that defies the odds and wins, screwing up people's predictions. I know I'm going to need to wrestle a near-perfect match Sunday if I want to walk away with my title—because until that bell rings and the match ends, if nothing else, it IS my belt—and I plan on delivering.”
Andrew chuckles to himself, a particular comment by Jones percolating to the surface as he thinks about what he had to say in response to him.
“You tried to call me, and I quote, “a little bitch who tries to play with the big boys and fails”. Need I remind you who I've got a pinfall victory over? Any guesses? I'll enlighten you, Alex: I PINNED GIB. That's right. I pinned our World Champion, nice and cleanly. So before you go and run your mouth about how I can't play with the big boys, you might want to take a look at who I've beaten. Rob Diamond. Gib. I'll admit, I don't have many big-name victories, but they're notable ones nonetheless. Your problem, Alex, is that not only are you full of yourself, you seem to think that's a positive character trait.”
Andrew stands up, slinging his belt over his shoulder. He walks towards the edge of the park, but keeps a slow, almost leisurely pace as he moves. Andrew takes in some more of the scenery as he walks.
“You say that you've earned the right to be a prick. Nobody ever earns that right. You could be a Hall of Famer and multiple-time World Champion and I'd still argue that you had no right to douche it up. See example: Ryan, Lance. You try to say that you're one of the best nCw has to offer? Well join the freaking club. Yeah, you might consider my beating you an upset. You'd be wrong, though. I've been busting my ass for the business of wrestling for what seems like and probably is years now. Alex, I have a goal. And that goal is to be nCw World Champion before the end of the 2010 calendar year. Now, with a third already gone, that might seem a bit unfeasible, especially if you do as you say and take my belt from me. But I have a sneaking suspicion I can make it happen. Maybe sometime over the summer months? Who knows? I could end up taking it at Transgression. But...that comes later.”
He exits Central Park, signaling for a taxi. One is slow in coming, leaving Andrew to stand on the curb for a while. He looks around and smiles again, taking in the New York City atmosphere.
“By now you've probably noticed that I smile a lot. It's because I try to look on the bright side of things all the time. For example, I may have to deal with your rantings all week, but I get to beat you down on Sunday, so it's all worth it. Make sense now, Alex? I don't behave in a light-hearted manner because I don't care about my matches. I do it specifically because I DO care. I care about each and every match I'm in...and that's why I don't get all “Serious Andrew Is Serious” about them. That's just not me. If there's anything that could sabotage my efforts, it'd be if I tried to act in a way that I wouldn't normally. I learned that with Paul Star. Nah, I'm just going to be me. And that should be enough to take you down and put you out of the X-Division Title picture for a while. Maybe that means I won't have to listen to you anymore. I doubt it, but it's a wish I can have.”
A cab pulls up to the curb, prompting Andrew's eyebrow to go up. He shrugs, walking over to the cab door, but turns and addresses the implied-to-be-there camera for the first time.
"So, let's see what you make of that. Please do something better than last time. That promo offended me as a speaker. See ya later, Jonesy. Please forget to write.”
Andrew ducks into the cab, stowing his title belt under his coat., and we can hear AJ tell the driver “MSG” before the door closes and the cab pulls back out into the hectic flow of New York traffic. Fade out on the sounds of the city.
Andrew snorts to himself as he replays what Alex said in his mind. He looks at the title belt that sits on his lap, grinning. Andrew looks up to the sky again, seeing the blank sky instead of the brilliant starscape that a country sky would have.
“You know what, Alex? I don't have anything to prove to you. I don't have to prove that I'm better than you, because I know I am. If you want to douche it up, then feel free. I'm just going to be comfortable in the fact that after this Sunday, when all is said and done, and the smoke clears from the battlefield, I will rise above and remain champion. Here's a bit of your own medicine: Hey, Alex. Remember that time you sucked? Oh...that's always. Never mind."
Andrew grins to himself, sighing. He takes a deep breath of the cool night air, feeling it bring an almost purifying effect to his body (ironic, considering NYC's air quality.)
“There's something about pay-per-views that brings out the best in me. I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that I know hundreds of thousands of people spent their hard-earned money to watch us wrestle. In any case, being on a grander stage lights a competitive fire in me. And being at A Night To Remember, the biggest stage of the year? If Metamorphosis lit a fire, then A Night To Remember has lit a firestorm. Between your words and the anticipation, I know I can't let anyone down, least of all the fans.”
Andrew grins, shifting the title belt under one arm. He idly drums on the back of the bench with his free hand's fingers, smiling still. Andrew taps out the rhythm of his entrance music, “Indestructible”, for some inexplicable reason. He catches himself doing this and grins, as if he's the cat that caught the canary.
“I thought I was in a slump, Alex. But I see now. What I need is a match like this. One where I can actually get into it and motivated. You know why I'm not taping myself in the gym, working out? Because I don't want to waste people's time with that. If I'm exercising, I can hardly devote all of my attention to talking. Speaking of talking, you seriously said I was like a five-year old with Down's syndrome? I've dealt with some classless figures in my time here. I've gone up against Rob Diamond, for crissakes—and won, just to remind you. But that has to be one of the single most blatantly grasping-for-straws BONEHEADED insults I've ever heard. Even Jason was more creative than that. As for your question as to whether I'm going to be the hero and stop you: yeah. Yeah, I am. Also, the Batman TV series was from the 1960s. Get your damn facts right if you're going to insult me.”
Andrew sets the title belt down now, sitting up fully. He brushes back his hair a bit, looking at a couple playing with their dog in another part of the park. Andrew smiles, knowing that they could be among the millions watching and cheering when Sunday rolled around. He lets out a low whistle to himself.
“So, all the vets think you can beat me? Well, they probably thought Rob was going to beat me too. And you saw how that turned out. I have a history of defying the odds. Some of the older WRESTLERS—because if there's one thing I hate, it's calling the men and women who go out there with us and work their asses off a stupid pseudo-American Idol thing like “Superstars”—understand that. Not all of them do. But that's okay. I'm aiming to cause some waves in betting pools. I'm planning on being what's known in professional sports terms as a bracket-buster: someone or, in the sports case, a team, that defies the odds and wins, screwing up people's predictions. I know I'm going to need to wrestle a near-perfect match Sunday if I want to walk away with my title—because until that bell rings and the match ends, if nothing else, it IS my belt—and I plan on delivering.”
Andrew chuckles to himself, a particular comment by Jones percolating to the surface as he thinks about what he had to say in response to him.
“You tried to call me, and I quote, “a little bitch who tries to play with the big boys and fails”. Need I remind you who I've got a pinfall victory over? Any guesses? I'll enlighten you, Alex: I PINNED GIB. That's right. I pinned our World Champion, nice and cleanly. So before you go and run your mouth about how I can't play with the big boys, you might want to take a look at who I've beaten. Rob Diamond. Gib. I'll admit, I don't have many big-name victories, but they're notable ones nonetheless. Your problem, Alex, is that not only are you full of yourself, you seem to think that's a positive character trait.”
Andrew stands up, slinging his belt over his shoulder. He walks towards the edge of the park, but keeps a slow, almost leisurely pace as he moves. Andrew takes in some more of the scenery as he walks.
“You say that you've earned the right to be a prick. Nobody ever earns that right. You could be a Hall of Famer and multiple-time World Champion and I'd still argue that you had no right to douche it up. See example: Ryan, Lance. You try to say that you're one of the best nCw has to offer? Well join the freaking club. Yeah, you might consider my beating you an upset. You'd be wrong, though. I've been busting my ass for the business of wrestling for what seems like and probably is years now. Alex, I have a goal. And that goal is to be nCw World Champion before the end of the 2010 calendar year. Now, with a third already gone, that might seem a bit unfeasible, especially if you do as you say and take my belt from me. But I have a sneaking suspicion I can make it happen. Maybe sometime over the summer months? Who knows? I could end up taking it at Transgression. But...that comes later.”
He exits Central Park, signaling for a taxi. One is slow in coming, leaving Andrew to stand on the curb for a while. He looks around and smiles again, taking in the New York City atmosphere.
“By now you've probably noticed that I smile a lot. It's because I try to look on the bright side of things all the time. For example, I may have to deal with your rantings all week, but I get to beat you down on Sunday, so it's all worth it. Make sense now, Alex? I don't behave in a light-hearted manner because I don't care about my matches. I do it specifically because I DO care. I care about each and every match I'm in...and that's why I don't get all “Serious Andrew Is Serious” about them. That's just not me. If there's anything that could sabotage my efforts, it'd be if I tried to act in a way that I wouldn't normally. I learned that with Paul Star. Nah, I'm just going to be me. And that should be enough to take you down and put you out of the X-Division Title picture for a while. Maybe that means I won't have to listen to you anymore. I doubt it, but it's a wish I can have.”
A cab pulls up to the curb, prompting Andrew's eyebrow to go up. He shrugs, walking over to the cab door, but turns and addresses the implied-to-be-there camera for the first time.
"So, let's see what you make of that. Please do something better than last time. That promo offended me as a speaker. See ya later, Jonesy. Please forget to write.”
Andrew ducks into the cab, stowing his title belt under his coat., and we can hear AJ tell the driver “MSG” before the door closes and the cab pulls back out into the hectic flow of New York traffic. Fade out on the sounds of the city.