Masuda Teijin Renews His Sitcom for another Season
Mar 20, 2022 5:08:13 GMT -5
Carter Shaw and Johnny Bacchus like this
Post by Deleted on Mar 20, 2022 5:08:13 GMT -5
The day began as any other: counts, deposits and the other opening scrum into that usual work cycle at his restaurant. The glow of Yokohama taunted through a thing windowpane's leaded glass, begging Teijin to take the back streets like an All-Star. Except he couldn't. Hobbled from a knee surgery, and the therapeutic bite of algae green slurries rushed into his brain. Grating, gnashing visions of those gold-blue ropes whipping against his back. Lenses flaring at the height of perfectly timed photo op; wherein a moment heaven, though fleeting, granted immortality.
Masuda lived this moment again and again ad nauseum to nightmarish proportion. Nobody to blame but himself for crawling away from his own funeral, dancing with tears in his eyes for the same of this addicting self-hatred of professional wrestling. Dreaming that it's alright never translated to the nightlife of meet-and-greets with that painful strain of a knee brace forcing him into a sociable light from a preferred gloom from back of house. Semi-famous, the movers and shakers; starkly, they all made him realize that Masuda Teijin was not a Shylock nor had some slimy gorgon whose gaze would keep people frozen in place. He had to return to the ring - to come back home.
Teijin engages his fanbase, still sporting a knee brace from the secluded back walls of his Yokohama restaurant. Smoking staff murmur about their lives in the background in a humanistic show unseen by the glitz of mood lighting nor sex appeal of gold speckled steaks and the filating of French cabernet bottles.
"Action wrestling, where do we begin with this one? I didn't choose to be injured. That's just my style. My MO. My mode of opining, never quite reaching the ledge as I fall tragically into the raging storm of a wildebeest stampede. Except, unlike Simba, there was no waiting to be king. Only this nagging place where I wouldn't talk about Uncle Jubei - No No No! - because it just made feel more inadequate.
So I took opportunities granted by this mug. I went full API, and that failed. I wore masks, and that also failed. Only in the last 6 to 8 months did it all make sense. When I almost reached finals with a shot at the Cruiser Clash Championship. Only then did it make sense. That I was trying too hard to cope with the difficulties of the sport. Surrounding myself in bad company like American psycho, Wesley, whose guidance was no more than fast lane to yet another concussion and literal ass whooping on TV - one that made me, the victimized child, the bad guy. And I let them villainize me because being in AW was better dying in wonderment.
I got testy. Got pissed off. All of those unbecoming emotions led yet another downfall. All the while I went through two years of injury leaves, self-discovery - ones with socially licensed counselors and the likes - Carter Shaw hit the fast lane of Action Wrestling. He trailblazed for that second generation of AW's royalty. In route to the All-In victory and eventual World Title glory. Face of the company and even one of the crowned horns of the once apocalyptic force that was Philador Holdings. Yet even he could not hold that Atlas weight forever. Now he stares across from me.
Mentally, he might give himself a Pauper and the Prince vibes, stoking himself on the idea that he's the Satan risen from Pandemonium and deserving of the fan's adoration. Yes - he has earned every stripe to his chevron. I won't deny his fame nor say his success was any less deserved. But they just put him pretty-faced into a dog cage with an ugly mutt that has fed in months. Hungry to prove that this time will be different. That he's not just a bastard, but THE ugly duckling of Action Wrestling that's about to get his due. And what better way to walk through those ropes than defeat a former world champion. A fallen monarch whose only now lapping up the bittersweet and oil shining puddles of mud I call sustenance.
Action Wrestling... I'll be back on Clash. So let's fuck some shit up before the true havoc lets loose this rabid mongrel of war!"
He unbuckles and throws his leg brace into the sky, huffing and puffing before the video cuts.
Masuda relived the moments as he sat across the media of AW. The circus hadn't changed. His hunger, although raging, spit on a microphone. Reporters did their part, but it all felt like an exhale. Rumblings whispered weird tales yet to come as he explained yet another injury and the steps to recovery. Doubts said that fans would brush it off as another reason to count out the Masuda heir to that golden throne in Yokohama. His silvery suit begged to differ as it glittered in that burn of a summoning aura, wherein a monster surged behind one casual rephrase: "Yeah, I think I'm back."
Masuda lived this moment again and again ad nauseum to nightmarish proportion. Nobody to blame but himself for crawling away from his own funeral, dancing with tears in his eyes for the same of this addicting self-hatred of professional wrestling. Dreaming that it's alright never translated to the nightlife of meet-and-greets with that painful strain of a knee brace forcing him into a sociable light from a preferred gloom from back of house. Semi-famous, the movers and shakers; starkly, they all made him realize that Masuda Teijin was not a Shylock nor had some slimy gorgon whose gaze would keep people frozen in place. He had to return to the ring - to come back home.
Teijin engages his fanbase, still sporting a knee brace from the secluded back walls of his Yokohama restaurant. Smoking staff murmur about their lives in the background in a humanistic show unseen by the glitz of mood lighting nor sex appeal of gold speckled steaks and the filating of French cabernet bottles.
"Action wrestling, where do we begin with this one? I didn't choose to be injured. That's just my style. My MO. My mode of opining, never quite reaching the ledge as I fall tragically into the raging storm of a wildebeest stampede. Except, unlike Simba, there was no waiting to be king. Only this nagging place where I wouldn't talk about Uncle Jubei - No No No! - because it just made feel more inadequate.
So I took opportunities granted by this mug. I went full API, and that failed. I wore masks, and that also failed. Only in the last 6 to 8 months did it all make sense. When I almost reached finals with a shot at the Cruiser Clash Championship. Only then did it make sense. That I was trying too hard to cope with the difficulties of the sport. Surrounding myself in bad company like American psycho, Wesley, whose guidance was no more than fast lane to yet another concussion and literal ass whooping on TV - one that made me, the victimized child, the bad guy. And I let them villainize me because being in AW was better dying in wonderment.
I got testy. Got pissed off. All of those unbecoming emotions led yet another downfall. All the while I went through two years of injury leaves, self-discovery - ones with socially licensed counselors and the likes - Carter Shaw hit the fast lane of Action Wrestling. He trailblazed for that second generation of AW's royalty. In route to the All-In victory and eventual World Title glory. Face of the company and even one of the crowned horns of the once apocalyptic force that was Philador Holdings. Yet even he could not hold that Atlas weight forever. Now he stares across from me.
Mentally, he might give himself a Pauper and the Prince vibes, stoking himself on the idea that he's the Satan risen from Pandemonium and deserving of the fan's adoration. Yes - he has earned every stripe to his chevron. I won't deny his fame nor say his success was any less deserved. But they just put him pretty-faced into a dog cage with an ugly mutt that has fed in months. Hungry to prove that this time will be different. That he's not just a bastard, but THE ugly duckling of Action Wrestling that's about to get his due. And what better way to walk through those ropes than defeat a former world champion. A fallen monarch whose only now lapping up the bittersweet and oil shining puddles of mud I call sustenance.
Action Wrestling... I'll be back on Clash. So let's fuck some shit up before the true havoc lets loose this rabid mongrel of war!"
He unbuckles and throws his leg brace into the sky, huffing and puffing before the video cuts.
Masuda relived the moments as he sat across the media of AW. The circus hadn't changed. His hunger, although raging, spit on a microphone. Reporters did their part, but it all felt like an exhale. Rumblings whispered weird tales yet to come as he explained yet another injury and the steps to recovery. Doubts said that fans would brush it off as another reason to count out the Masuda heir to that golden throne in Yokohama. His silvery suit begged to differ as it glittered in that burn of a summoning aura, wherein a monster surged behind one casual rephrase: "Yeah, I think I'm back."