Post by Caleb Lockwood on Aug 28, 2011 1:50:27 GMT -6
It's not often that I have to issue an apology. Still, nobody's perfect. This time, I'm not looking quite as swaggeringly suave as last time round. In fact, there's an element of...would that be contrition on the face of the Master of Gravity? Say it ain't so, baby! That can't be right! Let's take a listen in to what he has to say...
“I would like to formally apologize to Charlie Smiles, aka Freakke the Clown, aka Freakke the Carnival King, aka Barnabus Freakke, aka Xombi, aka El Phantasmo, aka Louie the guy selling popcorn up in the fifteenth row. I had no idea that there were two people running around claiming to be our lovable clown. To the guy that won the National Title and has the aforementioned six names, I apologize. Why do I apologize? Well, let me tell you...in song...”
I reach off-camera and produce both a hat and cane. A little piano riff starts in the background, and I take a deep breath to begin singing...
…
...only to immediately stop, waving my hands and dropping both of the recently acquired props.
“No, no, that's far too silly. Plus, I wouldn't want to torture you with my horrendous singing voice. No, I apologize to Charlie because I know he's an actual competitor. He takes this business seriously—well, as seriously as one can afford to—and it shows. Man's a former champion and a legitimate threat to anyone who steps in the ring with him. If I end up getting you on Sunday, then I'm ready to take you on and have a good match with you. If not, well...”
I wince. Here's where I delve back into the frankly shameful. But hey? What can you expect from a guy whose hobbies include jumping over things, running around things, and watching the Golden Girls?
...don't you dare mock me, Sophia Petrillo could kick your ass ten ways to Sunday and mock you the entire time. Epically so.
“...that's when all that apologizing and respect goes right out the window and I go back to regarding you as the guy whose ass I whooped on the webshow a few weeks back. I really hope it's Door One, since that other guy...well, he was boring. Boring, unoriginal, kicked his ass into the stratosphere...and if he wants to come back for Round Two, well...the Master is always ready to teach a willing student another lesson in gravity defiance. Say the word, you lummox. Say it, and I will come and box your ears in.”
Too melodramatic? I can never tell. I settle back into my favorite chair (it really is my favorite chair. Its name is Clive, and I found him outside a Goodwill. He is very comfortable, and I paid good money to have him repaired.) and crack my neck, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. That metaphor always bugged me. Wouldn't swallowing a canary be hazardous to the cat's health? Nevertheless. WE PRESS ON~!
“Charlie, I wouldn't dare disparage you. That is, the real you. Not this impostor who thinks that he can bumble around making vague threats and somehow come off as a legitimate force to be reckoned with. Him, I'll mock and insult until my jaw falls off and I need to get another one surgically attached, and then I'll run THAT one into the ground. If there's one thing I can do, it's talk—well, I can also freerun, but that's different—and you can't do a damn thing to stop me. So talk I will, and all you can do is impotently rage at the screen and pray my camera breaks.”
And there isn't any way that's going to happen, since I made sure to invest in a camera that would last me through the zombie apocalypse. So, other Freakke, you get to sit here and rage impotently at me. Ain't that great?More aptly, ain't I great? And why do I have the sudden urge to strut back and forth, lip-sync country and found a crappy wrestling promotion in Orlando? Eh, I'm sure it's just acid reflux or something. Back to the promo! Ooh, I think I see someone approaching...let's see who the guest star is this week, kids! It's...it's...
...LEON WESKER! Wow, who would have guessed we could get Wesker? Personally, I figured it'd be Jimmy Turner. I hop out of Clive and look over to him. He don't look happy.
“Hey there, Leon. What's shakin', buddy? Need me to turn my head and cough or something? I'm telling you, if I was herniated I wouldn't be able to do what I do, and I wouldn't get paid and have to keep making these ever-so-charming videos!”
I chuckle. He doesn't. Oh crap...I don't like SRS Wesker. That can't be good.
“I was reviewing your bloodwork and medical history in prep for the pay-per-view, and it looks like you're behind on your immunizations. The New York Athletic Commission is very specific about what you need to have done before they'll let you compete.”
I shrug. How bad can it be? Well, can't hurt to ask.
“So what sort of shots are we talking here, big man?”
One extremely lengthy, technical and somewhat frightening discussion later...
“GOOD GOD, MAN! Do you realize how many needles that is? And the toxicology thing...how was I supposed to predict that they'd use paint thinners in the moonshine at the shelter? Okay...please, do your thing, Doc...but if this at all interferes in my ability to compete at Nothing to Lose, then I swear by Clive's lacy burgundy trimming I will end you. Got that, you pencil-neck geek?”
Wesker looks at me like I've gone mad, which I very well may have. I'm no mental health expert. I think the visual of a guy who is barely two hundred pounds sopping wet calling him a pencil neck might have something to do with that expression...it might get frozen like that if he leaves in that spot too long...dammit, now I want it to—ahh, he moved. Darn. Wesker groans at me.
“...very well. Now come on, we've got waivers to sign and I can't hold up my day for one maniacal wrestler. Andale. And leave the chair here. It's not like it'll get up and walk away by itself.”
I sigh, nodding. Living in a world where people will steal all you own on this Earth just to get a ham sammich makes one a wee bit possessive. Ahh, hopefully this means I'll be in even better shape to take on Freakke tomorrow. If not? Maybe I can get him sick. Either way, I win! I'll see you folks ringside. I've got to go regret having health insurance now. ¡Adios!
“I would like to formally apologize to Charlie Smiles, aka Freakke the Clown, aka Freakke the Carnival King, aka Barnabus Freakke, aka Xombi, aka El Phantasmo, aka Louie the guy selling popcorn up in the fifteenth row. I had no idea that there were two people running around claiming to be our lovable clown. To the guy that won the National Title and has the aforementioned six names, I apologize. Why do I apologize? Well, let me tell you...in song...”
I reach off-camera and produce both a hat and cane. A little piano riff starts in the background, and I take a deep breath to begin singing...
…
...only to immediately stop, waving my hands and dropping both of the recently acquired props.
“No, no, that's far too silly. Plus, I wouldn't want to torture you with my horrendous singing voice. No, I apologize to Charlie because I know he's an actual competitor. He takes this business seriously—well, as seriously as one can afford to—and it shows. Man's a former champion and a legitimate threat to anyone who steps in the ring with him. If I end up getting you on Sunday, then I'm ready to take you on and have a good match with you. If not, well...”
I wince. Here's where I delve back into the frankly shameful. But hey? What can you expect from a guy whose hobbies include jumping over things, running around things, and watching the Golden Girls?
...don't you dare mock me, Sophia Petrillo could kick your ass ten ways to Sunday and mock you the entire time. Epically so.
“...that's when all that apologizing and respect goes right out the window and I go back to regarding you as the guy whose ass I whooped on the webshow a few weeks back. I really hope it's Door One, since that other guy...well, he was boring. Boring, unoriginal, kicked his ass into the stratosphere...and if he wants to come back for Round Two, well...the Master is always ready to teach a willing student another lesson in gravity defiance. Say the word, you lummox. Say it, and I will come and box your ears in.”
Too melodramatic? I can never tell. I settle back into my favorite chair (it really is my favorite chair. Its name is Clive, and I found him outside a Goodwill. He is very comfortable, and I paid good money to have him repaired.) and crack my neck, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. That metaphor always bugged me. Wouldn't swallowing a canary be hazardous to the cat's health? Nevertheless. WE PRESS ON~!
“Charlie, I wouldn't dare disparage you. That is, the real you. Not this impostor who thinks that he can bumble around making vague threats and somehow come off as a legitimate force to be reckoned with. Him, I'll mock and insult until my jaw falls off and I need to get another one surgically attached, and then I'll run THAT one into the ground. If there's one thing I can do, it's talk—well, I can also freerun, but that's different—and you can't do a damn thing to stop me. So talk I will, and all you can do is impotently rage at the screen and pray my camera breaks.”
And there isn't any way that's going to happen, since I made sure to invest in a camera that would last me through the zombie apocalypse. So, other Freakke, you get to sit here and rage impotently at me. Ain't that great?More aptly, ain't I great? And why do I have the sudden urge to strut back and forth, lip-sync country and found a crappy wrestling promotion in Orlando? Eh, I'm sure it's just acid reflux or something. Back to the promo! Ooh, I think I see someone approaching...let's see who the guest star is this week, kids! It's...it's...
...LEON WESKER! Wow, who would have guessed we could get Wesker? Personally, I figured it'd be Jimmy Turner. I hop out of Clive and look over to him. He don't look happy.
“Hey there, Leon. What's shakin', buddy? Need me to turn my head and cough or something? I'm telling you, if I was herniated I wouldn't be able to do what I do, and I wouldn't get paid and have to keep making these ever-so-charming videos!”
I chuckle. He doesn't. Oh crap...I don't like SRS Wesker. That can't be good.
“I was reviewing your bloodwork and medical history in prep for the pay-per-view, and it looks like you're behind on your immunizations. The New York Athletic Commission is very specific about what you need to have done before they'll let you compete.”
I shrug. How bad can it be? Well, can't hurt to ask.
“So what sort of shots are we talking here, big man?”
One extremely lengthy, technical and somewhat frightening discussion later...
“GOOD GOD, MAN! Do you realize how many needles that is? And the toxicology thing...how was I supposed to predict that they'd use paint thinners in the moonshine at the shelter? Okay...please, do your thing, Doc...but if this at all interferes in my ability to compete at Nothing to Lose, then I swear by Clive's lacy burgundy trimming I will end you. Got that, you pencil-neck geek?”
Wesker looks at me like I've gone mad, which I very well may have. I'm no mental health expert. I think the visual of a guy who is barely two hundred pounds sopping wet calling him a pencil neck might have something to do with that expression...it might get frozen like that if he leaves in that spot too long...dammit, now I want it to—ahh, he moved. Darn. Wesker groans at me.
“...very well. Now come on, we've got waivers to sign and I can't hold up my day for one maniacal wrestler. Andale. And leave the chair here. It's not like it'll get up and walk away by itself.”
I sigh, nodding. Living in a world where people will steal all you own on this Earth just to get a ham sammich makes one a wee bit possessive. Ahh, hopefully this means I'll be in even better shape to take on Freakke tomorrow. If not? Maybe I can get him sick. Either way, I win! I'll see you folks ringside. I've got to go regret having health insurance now. ¡Adios!