Post by adm on Oct 28, 2011 8:57:46 GMT -6
“Don’t pay any attention to what they write about you. Just measure it in inches.”
- Andy Warhol
Groans and grunts are heard as the dimly lit brand-new gym is nearly empty. The only man in the room is using the free weights to do arm curls. That man is Kristoff Bates, and he is fully clothed in a white A-shirt and gym shorts. His hair is perfectly manicured to resemble that of either an older Justin Bieber, or Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame. He stops, noticing the camera and stands to his full height, wiggling his arms to get the arms back into position at his sides after so long doing curls.
"Well, I thought I heard you speak, Mark Evil, but all I heard was a giant fart. I couldn't make out a single thing you said. I know there was some slurs in there somewhere, something about not being a jobber anymore, blah blah blah. Seriously, are you taking lessons from "Sexy" Jason Evans now? Are you two butt-buddies? I could SWEAR I heard like ninety percent of that thing you call a promo a few weeks ago when I...uh...oh yeah, WHEN I DESTROYED HIS BODY AND SPIRIT!"
Bates looks infuriated, and begins pacing, looking around the room madly.
"Oh, you think I'm not hardcore anymore because of the "change". No, it's not a change, it's an admission of guilt, Mark. You wouldn't understand the pressures of society, at all. You never obeyed those rules. The rules that say "get a job, go to college, get married, have kids." Or...if you want to be a bit more "They Live" about it."
Bates pulls out a pair of black sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, resembling vaguely Roddy Piper in the classic 80s cult film.
"Marry and Procreate. No Independent thought. Consume."
Bates takes off the shades and laughs maniacally. He moves toward the back of the gym along the wall where his old barbed-wire briefcase is resting against the back door. The camera follows as he kneels down to pick it up, not caring about touching the bloodied and sharp barbs, piercing his own flesh to touch his former claim to glory.
"You realize, Mark, that I left behind the Xtreme division in pursuit of higher callings, right? I went after the X-Division, to fail. I went after tag titles, to FAIL. I went after Adam and his World Title, to FAIL. I joined INFamous, to FAIL. Now that I'm back, on my own, and finally free of the lies and charades I kept up for the better part of my adult life to please my controlling mother, I can go at this my own way. I'd like to remind you, I was Honor Champion, begrudgingly, for two months. Two months with a title I didn't even feel I earned or wanted. Now...I don't see them throwing championships at YOU, and not ones that have had names like Xander Famularo, Lex Sense, and Spike Kane on their previous holders list. Sure, I'd love to face off for the X championship vacated when Xander won the Road to the Gold to get his shot at Steve Awesome. Sure, I'd love to be in my old friend Jake's spot facing Verona for the National Title, but you know what, I failed at Road to the Gold, so it's obvious there isn't a whole helluva lot left after the others were already booked. That's why I'm facing you, Mark. Just like when I faced Jason Evans. Everyone else was booked, they wanted to give me a week of an easy match to make up for my loss to one of the real competitors here in Xander and Falcon. So no matter what kind of slurs you can come up with or bull**** faux sexual scenarios you play out with me in your head, which...by the way, is completely uncalled for with an ugly **** like you, you'll never win."
Bates clutches his briefcase tightly to his chest, hugging it. Blood begins to dribble onto his white shirt, his hands are dripping onto the floor, and he smiles coyly as his head tilts to the side like a crazy man.
"Oh...I missed you, briefcase. I missed the smell of blood. I missed the brutality. I missed it all. And you know what, Briefcase...I miss beating Mark Evil with you. Do you remember him. Yes...I know, it was two years ago. But you remember him. You remember the taste of his flesh. Do you want to taste him again? Do you?"
Bates looks at the camera and deadpans, his face bearing no expression but pure seriousness of the moment.
"I'm sorry, Mark, but I think my briefcase would like to have a word with you..."
Bates throws the briefcase at the camera and begins to laugh as it bounces from the floor and the cameraman backs up, checking the camera for any damage. Blood has dripped onto the lens, giving it splotches of red hue.
"HAHAHA! You like that, Mark? You think I've gone soft? Oh...you don't know the MEANING of the word. You think just because the media says all people of one orientation all like Glee, all like pink, means I do too. That's the funny thing, the pervasiveness of stereotypes. If I were black, I'd have to love rap. If I were Latino, I'd be a lazy gardener. If I were Japanese, I'd be good at math, and have a tiny penis. I'm sorry my world isn't so black and white and full of safe stereotypes, Mark. Well, unless you count calling failures like you and your brother, Joe, curtain-jerkers. I'm tired of even trying to talk or explain to you in my terms, it's obvious your feeble, money-corrupted and concussion-rattled brain haven't the intelligence to even remember any words bigger than four letters. So let me put it simply, Mr. Evil."
Bates walks up and grabs the camera, pushing his face in so hard the plastic of the lens protection digs into the skin on his face.
"You will lose. I will win. And you will SHUT THE **** UP!"
Bates steps back and laughs again, before looking down at his watch.
"Now it's your turn, Mr. Evil. Come and prove you have more smarts than a trained monkey. Spew something intelligent, quote someone famous, hell, I'll even give you one you'll probably know from that old Sonic Cartoon. I'm WAITING! MWAHAHA!"
Bates walks away, picking up the briefcase as he exits the back door. His laugh continues even after he has gone, and the camera fades to black.
Outside the limit of our sight, feeding off us, perched on top of us, from birth to death, are our owners! Our owners! They have us. They control us! They are our masters! Wake up! They're all about you! All around you!
- Andy Warhol
Groans and grunts are heard as the dimly lit brand-new gym is nearly empty. The only man in the room is using the free weights to do arm curls. That man is Kristoff Bates, and he is fully clothed in a white A-shirt and gym shorts. His hair is perfectly manicured to resemble that of either an older Justin Bieber, or Robert Pattinson of Twilight fame. He stops, noticing the camera and stands to his full height, wiggling his arms to get the arms back into position at his sides after so long doing curls.
"Well, I thought I heard you speak, Mark Evil, but all I heard was a giant fart. I couldn't make out a single thing you said. I know there was some slurs in there somewhere, something about not being a jobber anymore, blah blah blah. Seriously, are you taking lessons from "Sexy" Jason Evans now? Are you two butt-buddies? I could SWEAR I heard like ninety percent of that thing you call a promo a few weeks ago when I...uh...oh yeah, WHEN I DESTROYED HIS BODY AND SPIRIT!"
Bates looks infuriated, and begins pacing, looking around the room madly.
"Oh, you think I'm not hardcore anymore because of the "change". No, it's not a change, it's an admission of guilt, Mark. You wouldn't understand the pressures of society, at all. You never obeyed those rules. The rules that say "get a job, go to college, get married, have kids." Or...if you want to be a bit more "They Live" about it."
Bates pulls out a pair of black sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on, resembling vaguely Roddy Piper in the classic 80s cult film.
"Marry and Procreate. No Independent thought. Consume."
Bates takes off the shades and laughs maniacally. He moves toward the back of the gym along the wall where his old barbed-wire briefcase is resting against the back door. The camera follows as he kneels down to pick it up, not caring about touching the bloodied and sharp barbs, piercing his own flesh to touch his former claim to glory.
"You realize, Mark, that I left behind the Xtreme division in pursuit of higher callings, right? I went after the X-Division, to fail. I went after tag titles, to FAIL. I went after Adam and his World Title, to FAIL. I joined INFamous, to FAIL. Now that I'm back, on my own, and finally free of the lies and charades I kept up for the better part of my adult life to please my controlling mother, I can go at this my own way. I'd like to remind you, I was Honor Champion, begrudgingly, for two months. Two months with a title I didn't even feel I earned or wanted. Now...I don't see them throwing championships at YOU, and not ones that have had names like Xander Famularo, Lex Sense, and Spike Kane on their previous holders list. Sure, I'd love to face off for the X championship vacated when Xander won the Road to the Gold to get his shot at Steve Awesome. Sure, I'd love to be in my old friend Jake's spot facing Verona for the National Title, but you know what, I failed at Road to the Gold, so it's obvious there isn't a whole helluva lot left after the others were already booked. That's why I'm facing you, Mark. Just like when I faced Jason Evans. Everyone else was booked, they wanted to give me a week of an easy match to make up for my loss to one of the real competitors here in Xander and Falcon. So no matter what kind of slurs you can come up with or bull**** faux sexual scenarios you play out with me in your head, which...by the way, is completely uncalled for with an ugly **** like you, you'll never win."
Bates clutches his briefcase tightly to his chest, hugging it. Blood begins to dribble onto his white shirt, his hands are dripping onto the floor, and he smiles coyly as his head tilts to the side like a crazy man.
"Oh...I missed you, briefcase. I missed the smell of blood. I missed the brutality. I missed it all. And you know what, Briefcase...I miss beating Mark Evil with you. Do you remember him. Yes...I know, it was two years ago. But you remember him. You remember the taste of his flesh. Do you want to taste him again? Do you?"
Bates looks at the camera and deadpans, his face bearing no expression but pure seriousness of the moment.
"I'm sorry, Mark, but I think my briefcase would like to have a word with you..."
Bates throws the briefcase at the camera and begins to laugh as it bounces from the floor and the cameraman backs up, checking the camera for any damage. Blood has dripped onto the lens, giving it splotches of red hue.
"HAHAHA! You like that, Mark? You think I've gone soft? Oh...you don't know the MEANING of the word. You think just because the media says all people of one orientation all like Glee, all like pink, means I do too. That's the funny thing, the pervasiveness of stereotypes. If I were black, I'd have to love rap. If I were Latino, I'd be a lazy gardener. If I were Japanese, I'd be good at math, and have a tiny penis. I'm sorry my world isn't so black and white and full of safe stereotypes, Mark. Well, unless you count calling failures like you and your brother, Joe, curtain-jerkers. I'm tired of even trying to talk or explain to you in my terms, it's obvious your feeble, money-corrupted and concussion-rattled brain haven't the intelligence to even remember any words bigger than four letters. So let me put it simply, Mr. Evil."
Bates walks up and grabs the camera, pushing his face in so hard the plastic of the lens protection digs into the skin on his face.
"You will lose. I will win. And you will SHUT THE **** UP!"
Bates steps back and laughs again, before looking down at his watch.
"Now it's your turn, Mr. Evil. Come and prove you have more smarts than a trained monkey. Spew something intelligent, quote someone famous, hell, I'll even give you one you'll probably know from that old Sonic Cartoon. I'm WAITING! MWAHAHA!"
Bates walks away, picking up the briefcase as he exits the back door. His laugh continues even after he has gone, and the camera fades to black.
Outside the limit of our sight, feeding off us, perched on top of us, from birth to death, are our owners! Our owners! They have us. They control us! They are our masters! Wake up! They're all about you! All around you!