Masuda Teijin Nukes the Isle of Lesbos
Oct 10, 2021 4:28:08 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Oct 10, 2021 4:28:08 GMT -5
We see Masuda Teijin ringside in jeans, raspberry blazer and Terra Walker T-shirt with a clown face painted on its veneer. He stares into that empty ring in Des Moines.
“To think eighteen months ago I was there lugging mats. Tying ropes like a disgruntled midshipman. Now I have arenas’ attention. All eyes are on this cruiserweight tourney as we inch closer to its next chapter. Except this time, my dreams defer no longer. I am Masuda Teijin… my time has arrived.”
He lights a cigarette against the barricade trying to look nonchalant and ice cold.
“I’ve crisscrossed through this roster with my sights on Terra Walker. But before I can silence that moistened cockle, they put me against someone I should arguably hate just as much. Karlie Nash decided last month to make an example of me because something in her needy nutcracker had to be satisfied.
That cheap shot—a merciless clothesline from an unforgiving MILF siren—took me out of rhythm. I had just reeled from a humiliating loss to Terra Walker. Then this drama king throws every slick move in her arsenal—AT ME. Karlie might have brought the kitchen sink that night; yet ever the persistent floater, Masuda Teijin always resurfaces. Because nobody flushes away my spirit!”
He looks up lost in the rigging as pilgrims do before their mecca.
“My second anniversary’s coming up soon, but it won’t mean a damn if I’m not holding the Deuce’s title and smoking an obnoxiously long cigar. Purple smoke of victory enveloping me... I can smell it already.
First, I need to take back my credibility this week. My road doesn’t get any easier because no matter what funny shit I spout about the Sapphic façade of our resident She-Hulk, there’s no denying Karlie’s imprint on Action Wrestling. That name spread across the OG marquees of AW lore. Three-time Cruiserweight Tag Champion; one half of Red, White and Bruised: Legendary.
But… what people might look past is that she’s led these charges into the history books at the right moment. Just like that sneak attack several weeks ago, Nash continues to be a nagging opportunist that strikes only when the tallest metal tree isn’t looking. Then ZAP!
Valkyries sapping off pandemonium after someone else relinquished the belts. Only to be upended by superior teams. Karlie won’t tell you that part. Those random acts of violence by her and Vaughn—the other half of their twisted wishbone—clamping a vise on anyone that dares to give them guff backstage.
So from one petulant brat to another, I know when a cranky baby’s acting out for attention. Whether or not that’s some Freudian slip manifesting as your open season on all cougars is out of my paygrade. I do, however, believe that whatever spawned your extracurricular exercises also keeps you from being among the best on Cruiser Clash. Your need for the spotlight sickens me to convulsions.
Meanwhile, your dangerous obsession with interviews would make most dictators blush. Your sheer number of hours behind the mic must hold a record by now—if anyone’s bothered to count. All this creates cocktails of disorder unfit for any championship in AW. Even ones that don’t exist yet!”
Masuda pulls at his face as if removing a latex mask.
“That’s where I come in after two resounding victories to get to this point. You had a pizza party and didn’t even invite the roster, celebrating your unambiguously WNBA energy with Nikki last week. How cute that you got to challenge your best friend. Well, this week is different—because I fucking despise you!
Your days of abusing weak, sick and injured end here. I have a civic duty to dam you harder than you plumbed—you get the goddamn point! If I don’t take a stand against every terrible thing you’ve brought to AW, my intersectional soul would shatter while my growing fanbase falls on their own swords.
This new age of Masuda is cresting at the right moment in history. You’re just another bad memory waning into your own pitiful darkness for which I have no pity nor regret excommunicating through blinding light.”
Fade to black.
“To think eighteen months ago I was there lugging mats. Tying ropes like a disgruntled midshipman. Now I have arenas’ attention. All eyes are on this cruiserweight tourney as we inch closer to its next chapter. Except this time, my dreams defer no longer. I am Masuda Teijin… my time has arrived.”
He lights a cigarette against the barricade trying to look nonchalant and ice cold.
“I’ve crisscrossed through this roster with my sights on Terra Walker. But before I can silence that moistened cockle, they put me against someone I should arguably hate just as much. Karlie Nash decided last month to make an example of me because something in her needy nutcracker had to be satisfied.
That cheap shot—a merciless clothesline from an unforgiving MILF siren—took me out of rhythm. I had just reeled from a humiliating loss to Terra Walker. Then this drama king throws every slick move in her arsenal—AT ME. Karlie might have brought the kitchen sink that night; yet ever the persistent floater, Masuda Teijin always resurfaces. Because nobody flushes away my spirit!”
He looks up lost in the rigging as pilgrims do before their mecca.
“My second anniversary’s coming up soon, but it won’t mean a damn if I’m not holding the Deuce’s title and smoking an obnoxiously long cigar. Purple smoke of victory enveloping me... I can smell it already.
First, I need to take back my credibility this week. My road doesn’t get any easier because no matter what funny shit I spout about the Sapphic façade of our resident She-Hulk, there’s no denying Karlie’s imprint on Action Wrestling. That name spread across the OG marquees of AW lore. Three-time Cruiserweight Tag Champion; one half of Red, White and Bruised: Legendary.
But… what people might look past is that she’s led these charges into the history books at the right moment. Just like that sneak attack several weeks ago, Nash continues to be a nagging opportunist that strikes only when the tallest metal tree isn’t looking. Then ZAP!
Valkyries sapping off pandemonium after someone else relinquished the belts. Only to be upended by superior teams. Karlie won’t tell you that part. Those random acts of violence by her and Vaughn—the other half of their twisted wishbone—clamping a vise on anyone that dares to give them guff backstage.
So from one petulant brat to another, I know when a cranky baby’s acting out for attention. Whether or not that’s some Freudian slip manifesting as your open season on all cougars is out of my paygrade. I do, however, believe that whatever spawned your extracurricular exercises also keeps you from being among the best on Cruiser Clash. Your need for the spotlight sickens me to convulsions.
Meanwhile, your dangerous obsession with interviews would make most dictators blush. Your sheer number of hours behind the mic must hold a record by now—if anyone’s bothered to count. All this creates cocktails of disorder unfit for any championship in AW. Even ones that don’t exist yet!”
Masuda pulls at his face as if removing a latex mask.
“That’s where I come in after two resounding victories to get to this point. You had a pizza party and didn’t even invite the roster, celebrating your unambiguously WNBA energy with Nikki last week. How cute that you got to challenge your best friend. Well, this week is different—because I fucking despise you!
Your days of abusing weak, sick and injured end here. I have a civic duty to dam you harder than you plumbed—you get the goddamn point! If I don’t take a stand against every terrible thing you’ve brought to AW, my intersectional soul would shatter while my growing fanbase falls on their own swords.
This new age of Masuda is cresting at the right moment in history. You’re just another bad memory waning into your own pitiful darkness for which I have no pity nor regret excommunicating through blinding light.”
Fade to black.