Post by Andrew Jacobsen on Jun 2, 2010 1:06:47 GMT -6
Open on Andrew Jacobsen with Chad Lights sitting in an interview space in front of a poster for Reborn, conveniently leaving any visuals of the Young Guns off. Chad smiles an unenthusiastic smile into the camera, a sharp contrast to the newfound deadpan demeanor of Andrew. He starts to talk, but gets cut off by Andrew, hand upraised as if to push Chad's inevitable comments away from him. He raises his mic to his mouth with his other hand, speaking very slowly so that everyone listening can understand everything he says.
“Chad...please, spare me the usual insipid attempts at hyping the match. We all know you have the charisma of a rutabaga and the entertainment skills of a carpenter ant, so just shut your mouth and let me do the talking. It's my match, I'm the one who's got to beat Venom on Sunday, so, for all the hundreds of people who are going to watch this, can the crap and let me work. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Lights?”
Chad nods meekly, and Andrew sits back in his chair, satisfied. He nods to himself, testing the microphone.
“Fantaaaastic. Okay, seeing as this thing seems to work, I guess I can go back to talking about Venom. One thing: why is it that people focus on talking? Talking doesn't mean jack in the ring. You can't talk someone into submission. Or can you? If so, then I just figured out Rob Diamond's new finisher. In the end, what I'm trying to say is that talk is cheap and actions speak louder than words do. Dont'cha just love clichés? I do.”
He grins, looking to Chad to forestall any interjections. Chad remains silent in his chair. Andrew turns back, speaking.
“Well, yeah. Back to Venom. So you object to my not doing my research? Well, I made sure to watch your half-baked excuse for a promo. And first things first...you're a moron. My name isn't “Andrew Jacobensen.” It's Andrew JACOBSEN. Have enough brains to get your opponent's name right. And I guess if you didn't know my name, then you didn't know where to look for my requesting our match. And thank you very much, Venom. Thank you for reminding me that I need to keep this up and ignore every detractor I've ever had. I will. I'm going to say “screw you” to the Rob Diamonds of the world and give everyone a match that TOPS the one I had at A Night To Remember.”
Andrew looks around, then back to a still cowering Chad. He shakes his head, carefully booting over the protesting Lights' chair, and walks away from the set, a cameraman following him.
“I confused you with my whole “I want you gone, but I'll call you out” routine? Okay, let me break it down for you, using small words so you'll understand. I hate the Young Guns. I think you are assholes. I would like it if you were no longer with nCw. But you are going to stay for a while. So I want to fight you. Any of you. Because I want to get rid of some anger. I challenged Charlie. But I never said that I wanted a title match. I just wanted to fight him. I chose you because Charlie was busy at the pay-per-view. Does that explain everything for you, you monocellular, semi-literate, self-inflated troglodyte?”
Andrew grabs a full cup of black coffee from the lounge area as he walks by, sipping it. He nods to a passing road crew member, who waves back. Andrew takes a gulp of the coffee and sets it down on a box, turning a corner.
“You honestly think I'm jealous of you, Venom? You think I'm jealous of ANY of you? You're sorely mistaken. I PITY you. I don't envy you. I didn't jump to Zelda's defense because of some narcissistic need for attention—and speaking of personality disorders, how in the living hell did you come up with calling me schizoid? As far as I recall, that's a completely bullcrap label. Let's see, I've got the definition written down here in my pocket...”
He pulls a folded piece of paper out, unfolding it and reading it aloud as he walks.
“Ahem. "Schizoid personality disorder, or SPD, is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, and emotional coldness." And before you ask, yes, I did write down the Wikipedia definition. I wasn't going to go pull out a doctor's manual of disorders. Let's go down the list, shall we? A lack of interest in social relationships...yeah, my having dedicated friends and a healthy family life sure speaks to that, don't it? A tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, see previous. Secretiveness. Okay, when have I been secretive at all? And emotional coldness. I'm probably one of the most warm guys here. I'm like a furnace of good feelings. So, there you go.”
Andrew walks through the backstage area some more, stopping before the area that leads out to the entrance ramp and the ring...or at least where it would be. It's in the process of being unpacked. He looks around, leaning up against the wall with an enormous grin on his face.
“It's a good thing that we've got the whole week to get things all set up for the pay-per-view. Wouldn't want anything to go wrong. You know how it is, right? I mean, one minute the crowd's all amped up and ready for something huge to happen, and one screwup later you've got legends speaking through voice changers, stormtrooper helmets sprayed with glitter and general screw-ups abounding. It's not that shocking when you think about it. We're only human. We all make mistakes. And your mistake was thinking that you could take me.”
He grins again, showing a lot more cocky of a demeanor than he usually does. Andrew walks through the setup area, not caring about whose way he gets in.
“Are you good? Oh, without a doubt. You're damn good. But I'm better. I am so much better than you are. I'm tougher, I'm stronger...I'm just better overall. You've got a SLIGHT speed advantage, but that's all. My adaptability is going to win out over anything you can throw at me. And Venom? If I can catch you for even half a second and lock in a submission hold, it's all over for you. Especially with your recurring migraines. Dude, just take some aspirin and get over it. A migraine's not going to kill you. And you can take that autograph and stuff it.”
Andrew completes his circuit, walking back into the interview space where Chad Lights is trying to compose himself. Chad starts in surprise when Andrew walks in, but quickly realizes he's better off without speaking.. The Minnesotan smirks, pushing Chad back into his chair, and sits down himself. He turns to Chad and begins speaking with a mocking tone.
“So, Chad. That's what I have to say. Any further questions from the press?”
He points the mic at Chad, who just stutters incoherently. After a second or two of this, Andrew takes the mic back and looks to the camera.
“That's what I thought. Well then, I guess all I can do is sit back and wait until Venom lets another volley of bull fly. Until then, I'm Andrew Jacobsen, he's Chad Lights, and we're out of here. See y'all later.”
Fade out on Andrew walking away from Chad and shaking his head in disgust.
“Chad...please, spare me the usual insipid attempts at hyping the match. We all know you have the charisma of a rutabaga and the entertainment skills of a carpenter ant, so just shut your mouth and let me do the talking. It's my match, I'm the one who's got to beat Venom on Sunday, so, for all the hundreds of people who are going to watch this, can the crap and let me work. Do we have an understanding, Mr. Lights?”
Chad nods meekly, and Andrew sits back in his chair, satisfied. He nods to himself, testing the microphone.
“Fantaaaastic. Okay, seeing as this thing seems to work, I guess I can go back to talking about Venom. One thing: why is it that people focus on talking? Talking doesn't mean jack in the ring. You can't talk someone into submission. Or can you? If so, then I just figured out Rob Diamond's new finisher. In the end, what I'm trying to say is that talk is cheap and actions speak louder than words do. Dont'cha just love clichés? I do.”
He grins, looking to Chad to forestall any interjections. Chad remains silent in his chair. Andrew turns back, speaking.
“Well, yeah. Back to Venom. So you object to my not doing my research? Well, I made sure to watch your half-baked excuse for a promo. And first things first...you're a moron. My name isn't “Andrew Jacobensen.” It's Andrew JACOBSEN. Have enough brains to get your opponent's name right. And I guess if you didn't know my name, then you didn't know where to look for my requesting our match. And thank you very much, Venom. Thank you for reminding me that I need to keep this up and ignore every detractor I've ever had. I will. I'm going to say “screw you” to the Rob Diamonds of the world and give everyone a match that TOPS the one I had at A Night To Remember.”
Andrew looks around, then back to a still cowering Chad. He shakes his head, carefully booting over the protesting Lights' chair, and walks away from the set, a cameraman following him.
“I confused you with my whole “I want you gone, but I'll call you out” routine? Okay, let me break it down for you, using small words so you'll understand. I hate the Young Guns. I think you are assholes. I would like it if you were no longer with nCw. But you are going to stay for a while. So I want to fight you. Any of you. Because I want to get rid of some anger. I challenged Charlie. But I never said that I wanted a title match. I just wanted to fight him. I chose you because Charlie was busy at the pay-per-view. Does that explain everything for you, you monocellular, semi-literate, self-inflated troglodyte?”
Andrew grabs a full cup of black coffee from the lounge area as he walks by, sipping it. He nods to a passing road crew member, who waves back. Andrew takes a gulp of the coffee and sets it down on a box, turning a corner.
“You honestly think I'm jealous of you, Venom? You think I'm jealous of ANY of you? You're sorely mistaken. I PITY you. I don't envy you. I didn't jump to Zelda's defense because of some narcissistic need for attention—and speaking of personality disorders, how in the living hell did you come up with calling me schizoid? As far as I recall, that's a completely bullcrap label. Let's see, I've got the definition written down here in my pocket...”
He pulls a folded piece of paper out, unfolding it and reading it aloud as he walks.
“Ahem. "Schizoid personality disorder, or SPD, is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, and emotional coldness." And before you ask, yes, I did write down the Wikipedia definition. I wasn't going to go pull out a doctor's manual of disorders. Let's go down the list, shall we? A lack of interest in social relationships...yeah, my having dedicated friends and a healthy family life sure speaks to that, don't it? A tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, see previous. Secretiveness. Okay, when have I been secretive at all? And emotional coldness. I'm probably one of the most warm guys here. I'm like a furnace of good feelings. So, there you go.”
Andrew walks through the backstage area some more, stopping before the area that leads out to the entrance ramp and the ring...or at least where it would be. It's in the process of being unpacked. He looks around, leaning up against the wall with an enormous grin on his face.
“It's a good thing that we've got the whole week to get things all set up for the pay-per-view. Wouldn't want anything to go wrong. You know how it is, right? I mean, one minute the crowd's all amped up and ready for something huge to happen, and one screwup later you've got legends speaking through voice changers, stormtrooper helmets sprayed with glitter and general screw-ups abounding. It's not that shocking when you think about it. We're only human. We all make mistakes. And your mistake was thinking that you could take me.”
He grins again, showing a lot more cocky of a demeanor than he usually does. Andrew walks through the setup area, not caring about whose way he gets in.
“Are you good? Oh, without a doubt. You're damn good. But I'm better. I am so much better than you are. I'm tougher, I'm stronger...I'm just better overall. You've got a SLIGHT speed advantage, but that's all. My adaptability is going to win out over anything you can throw at me. And Venom? If I can catch you for even half a second and lock in a submission hold, it's all over for you. Especially with your recurring migraines. Dude, just take some aspirin and get over it. A migraine's not going to kill you. And you can take that autograph and stuff it.”
Andrew completes his circuit, walking back into the interview space where Chad Lights is trying to compose himself. Chad starts in surprise when Andrew walks in, but quickly realizes he's better off without speaking.. The Minnesotan smirks, pushing Chad back into his chair, and sits down himself. He turns to Chad and begins speaking with a mocking tone.
“So, Chad. That's what I have to say. Any further questions from the press?”
He points the mic at Chad, who just stutters incoherently. After a second or two of this, Andrew takes the mic back and looks to the camera.
“That's what I thought. Well then, I guess all I can do is sit back and wait until Venom lets another volley of bull fly. Until then, I'm Andrew Jacobsen, he's Chad Lights, and we're out of here. See y'all later.”
Fade out on Andrew walking away from Chad and shaking his head in disgust.