Post by Odin Balfore on Mar 18, 2022 22:33:09 GMT -5
The metallic ping of cuticle on nickel-zinc alloy lets you know all that you need to know. This aint fifty-fifty. This aint a game of chance and This aint Odin Balfore. What we hear can soon be seen. Odin Balfore with his feet up at a board room table. Fine Italian shoes. Designer pants, crème colored button up. Behind him were posters and championship belts, mounted neatly and meticulously. Odin just staring a hole into our hearts and souls.
“ Hey Paulseph. You caught me redecorating. I was bound to redecorate. Bound to rebuild. Bound to do a lot more than be a louse on the system like the mangled wreck that I see before me. Oh, but look at me; there I go again with those spoilers. Gotta work the rag sheets, brother. Pft, brother.”
Odin scoffs.
“I know what you want. I know why you’re here. You want the cursed Idol around his waist. To take a Championship all your own. I’ll tell you though, dreams are a messy and fickle business. Not a whole lot of capital.”
Odin shrugs, still flipping his coin, catching it, and flipping it up again.
“However, Paulseph, I’m not him, and that my friend, is where you done went and fucked all the way up. He thinks I don’t know that he left me here in Houston to go to Denmark. Bah! What in Denmark except for nobody and nothing. He thinks I don’t know he went there to try and reclaim a part of himself missing. He thinks that I ain’t it. However, Paulseph, with all his floorboard preachin’, how everyone else will inevitably be him, he knows that he doesn’t want to inevitable become – shall we say, not himself – more to the point, I’ll call a spade a spade and say that he don’t want to become pieces of shit like you. What he hasn’t considered is that I AM IT. I AM HIM. It took him across the globe and back again and he still aint got it. It doesn’t matter though, Paulseph. I’ll drag the Forgotten Icon, the Trash Tier legend, back up to what he should be. He doesn’t know that I can hear him. I heard every cunt word that came out of his mouth. I agree that his career trag-jec-tory is inevitable. That whole:
Odin scoffs.
“I know what you want. I know why you’re here. You want the cursed Idol around his waist. To take a Championship all your own. I’ll tell you though, dreams are a messy and fickle business. Not a whole lot of capital.”
Odin shrugs, still flipping his coin, catching it, and flipping it up again.
“However, Paulseph, I’m not him, and that my friend, is where you done went and fucked all the way up. He thinks I don’t know that he left me here in Houston to go to Denmark. Bah! What in Denmark except for nobody and nothing. He thinks I don’t know he went there to try and reclaim a part of himself missing. He thinks that I ain’t it. However, Paulseph, with all his floorboard preachin’, how everyone else will inevitably be him, he knows that he doesn’t want to inevitable become – shall we say, not himself – more to the point, I’ll call a spade a spade and say that he don’t want to become pieces of shit like you. What he hasn’t considered is that I AM IT. I AM HIM. It took him across the globe and back again and he still aint got it. It doesn’t matter though, Paulseph. I’ll drag the Forgotten Icon, the Trash Tier legend, back up to what he should be. He doesn’t know that I can hear him. I heard every cunt word that came out of his mouth. I agree that his career trag-jec-tory is inevitable. That whole:
‘Throne of mold, yada, yada’
but a pine box is a pine box. I’ll tell you what though. It’s the best thing to happen to Raging Deads career and it’ll be the best thing to happen to yours. At least then you’ll finally get over.
Spiritually speaking, of course.
But that’s a whole ‘different side, same coin, where’s your crown King Nothing.’ I can dig it; your grave included but I don’t wanna ‘Russo’ up this storyline. We’ll just keep the deep cuts simple so your puddin mind can comprehend it – sorry – un-der-stan -did-did, it.
See, his folly is that he think he doesn’t need me.
Yours is that you think you can’t or wont be him.
My folly is that I haven’t considered reaching for bigger. The World Heavy weight championship sounds like a good time to me. Not to be King Nothing, not be King of All Wrestlers, but King of ALL WRESTLING, WORLD WIDE. PERIOD. STOP. THANKS FOR PLAYING. Not you though, you prolly think you’ll fall off the shit. Hell you prolly think I exist in glass box.
If only it were that simple, Paulseph. But it ain’t. Hell, I even thought about letting you take me away from him – just to see what would happen but then you saw it happen. My god, cut your wrists, Good Charlotte, and let the Black Parade take hold.
Am I right?
That’s rhetorical, Paulseph, you aint got to answer it.
What you do gotta answer for is this week.
Who put you up to it.
why did they do it.
and why do they not care about your safety.
Was it Bently, why; because he’s rich? Every twenty-year-old with a Robinhood account and a picture of a chimp smoking a spiff is suddenly a millionaire. You should look it up online. Just as Steve can right-click an NFT, you can right-click copy/paste ‘pro wrestler’ into your twitter bio. I see a lot of that now, too.
‘Taking bookings now’
Sheesh, sure. You cant take a back bump but you can take a bookin. You cant lace your boots but you’re gonna lace up a wrist lock.
You wanna be a wrestler so you want to the take out the king of all wrestling. See, makes no fucking sense. It’s the execution that's faulty. I wish my dick were more than just metaphorical because it’s so fucking hard right now. Go ask Steve, ‘why;’ conjure thought bubbles till you’re drowning in cranial overload. And you’re wishing you were back ‘on the dock’ carrying crates of cat shit from Hong Kong to Wuhan till you were all Cypress Hill.
Tell you what, Paulseph, you step in that ring with me and I’ll make you famous. I’ll make you remorseful. I’ll make you morn the day someone smarter than you convinced you that this was a good idea.”
Odin flips the coin one last time and slaps it on the table, sliding it across with an outstretched arm.
“Before I lift my hand off this table, know that I don’t give a fuck with they are violent or not but what they are - they’re on sight breaking guys like you in half with your pepperoni faces, all roided out, blown up because your matches go more than twenty seconds. I’m going to turn you out like a crack whore on a friday night and leaving you shaking and begging. Expose a greenhorn thats over his head. You’re not the first. You’re not the last. You’re just next.
Rest in fucking piss.
Rest in fucking piss.
Ready or not, here I come.