Post by Deleted on Mar 22, 2022 12:54:33 GMT -5
Open to a live stream with Masuda Teijin holding a bag of peas to his head looking nonplus. He glares longingly into the void of the internet to beseech their forgiveness.
“That didn’t go to plan. It’s also not the first time I said give me a chance and I get splatted on a windshield. The old Tei-tei, however, would’ve just pulled out a cig and moved onto the darkest room like a migraine sufferer on stormy day. Not anymore. You see the wings sprouting from my back just as the clock teases another Monday. Another curtain job. Another psycho from under AW’s demented basement.
When did the game find time to give scarred—mentally and physically—party clowns a stage and time to pontificate on a microphone? I came back to this game expecting the highest caliber worthy of our wrestling connoisseurs. Our demographic has the cornerstone on neckbeards, WCF Tees and dirt sheet commentary they crusted in the bottom of worn socks. You fans deserve the best—not another chomp off Der Metzger’s blood sausage.
Besides the obvious lack of concern for talent; seriously, have you seen the bullshit they expect me to endure this week? While I’d love to get my hands bloody in something esteemed like the Pure Cup and pay homage to my old pal, Cormack MacNeil… I shouldn’t be coerced by the lower tassels to get rabies from Wendigo. JFC. Am I looking at the same thing as you all? Because whatever stygian visage I am supposed to succumb to next week should be written off on my ridder. Maybe I should fire my agent.”
He sits there, stretching out that injured knee in a lighter mobility brace.
“I’m not even healthy yet; regardless, coming back early was my choice. I could have taken another month or more to return to my rock breaking shape from last fall. Nope. I had to get back into those ropes. Because it can be so difficult to return to what you love with your pants at half-mast.
Now these geniuses want to throw me into the ring with that cringy girl from Umbrella Academy whose keen senses reek of venison entrails and kindergarten pastel collages. Bric-a-brac elements of guttural disgust that would make even my rapiest paralysis demons shudder. Listen… picking on somebody’s looks is below my style, but some trainwrecks just need to stay in dim lighting.
They say that I should keep my head down. Don’t engage in her primal games because the Wendigo, I suppose, wants to devour my flesh like that bath salt dude crouched on a Floridian overpass. Seriously, can OSHAA get to the bottom of why I must be placed in the clawed grasp of such an unsafe handler of my precious gemstones. It’s a disgrace to the Masuda name!
You know… I see it now! You remind of this slimy devil that once dry humped his way around AW’s ring. His name Logan—some crazed bastard Jared Leto wouldn’t play on amphetamines. He also shared your affinity for smudged face paint and misguided tattoos. A vile bacteriophage posing as human flesh. He also authored himself as a torturer, a sociopath—someone so dogged by society they fell upon the sword of borderline personality disorder. Seppuku no one batted an eye to because some people just never had a chance at a normal life. I also sympathize, coming from a family that hid its furtive side of illicit business as thumb-breaking crime lords, knowing that some of us are just cursed at birth.
You want to talk? Wendigo, I know a cry for help when I see one. You’re not just the next in an endless line of meat chopped up for their digestion—proportioned like lukewarm hotdogs chopped up for little baby’s bites—you have a future. Maybe this business can save you too. But you’re going to need to make an effort to embrace talent; also, be open to medicate for whatever terrors you’re reliving every match.
Some people come into matches blind against new talent. I can’t afford ignorance—not with Havoc looming over us all. This is moving day for the weak when everybody picks a buck and takes their shot. So, this one must be a W, lest I be forgotten again under all the mass of humanity.
Which means I dissected your game down to the “nitty gritty” on my operating table. I found someone whose past chases them. And you’re there every day on the defensive—a victim desperately outrunning Christine’s headlights in King’s mid-80’s thriller—with the right amount of fucked up gore that would give GWAR a boner. You do realize, however, that hemophilic porphyria in modern wrestling sucks more than Leto playing Morbius. It’s also the fast track to career-ending hepatitis.”
Teijin looks down at a crumpled pack of smokes.
“I gave up my trash habits. Now I’m holding my own against talent to the likes of Carter Shaw, a former world champion. Sure, he bested me, but a year ago I would’ve been jobbed back to the curtains.
My point: You have a chance to develop. There’s room for improvement. First, stop all this vamp crap because the business and our adoring fans won’t support a skin walker unless it’s Leo eating raw fish for an Academy Award. We’re persnickety in our wrestling in AW, not unless you think you can be a monster to the likes of Obi or Metzger. My advice: see a good dentist and then a plastic surgeon for that broke ass mug. Become someone worth their love. You have the ring talent and spunk to survive; otherwise, you’ll just find yourself licking up your own blood for a long, long time.”
Cut to black.
“That didn’t go to plan. It’s also not the first time I said give me a chance and I get splatted on a windshield. The old Tei-tei, however, would’ve just pulled out a cig and moved onto the darkest room like a migraine sufferer on stormy day. Not anymore. You see the wings sprouting from my back just as the clock teases another Monday. Another curtain job. Another psycho from under AW’s demented basement.
When did the game find time to give scarred—mentally and physically—party clowns a stage and time to pontificate on a microphone? I came back to this game expecting the highest caliber worthy of our wrestling connoisseurs. Our demographic has the cornerstone on neckbeards, WCF Tees and dirt sheet commentary they crusted in the bottom of worn socks. You fans deserve the best—not another chomp off Der Metzger’s blood sausage.
Besides the obvious lack of concern for talent; seriously, have you seen the bullshit they expect me to endure this week? While I’d love to get my hands bloody in something esteemed like the Pure Cup and pay homage to my old pal, Cormack MacNeil… I shouldn’t be coerced by the lower tassels to get rabies from Wendigo. JFC. Am I looking at the same thing as you all? Because whatever stygian visage I am supposed to succumb to next week should be written off on my ridder. Maybe I should fire my agent.”
He sits there, stretching out that injured knee in a lighter mobility brace.
“I’m not even healthy yet; regardless, coming back early was my choice. I could have taken another month or more to return to my rock breaking shape from last fall. Nope. I had to get back into those ropes. Because it can be so difficult to return to what you love with your pants at half-mast.
Now these geniuses want to throw me into the ring with that cringy girl from Umbrella Academy whose keen senses reek of venison entrails and kindergarten pastel collages. Bric-a-brac elements of guttural disgust that would make even my rapiest paralysis demons shudder. Listen… picking on somebody’s looks is below my style, but some trainwrecks just need to stay in dim lighting.
They say that I should keep my head down. Don’t engage in her primal games because the Wendigo, I suppose, wants to devour my flesh like that bath salt dude crouched on a Floridian overpass. Seriously, can OSHAA get to the bottom of why I must be placed in the clawed grasp of such an unsafe handler of my precious gemstones. It’s a disgrace to the Masuda name!
You know… I see it now! You remind of this slimy devil that once dry humped his way around AW’s ring. His name Logan—some crazed bastard Jared Leto wouldn’t play on amphetamines. He also shared your affinity for smudged face paint and misguided tattoos. A vile bacteriophage posing as human flesh. He also authored himself as a torturer, a sociopath—someone so dogged by society they fell upon the sword of borderline personality disorder. Seppuku no one batted an eye to because some people just never had a chance at a normal life. I also sympathize, coming from a family that hid its furtive side of illicit business as thumb-breaking crime lords, knowing that some of us are just cursed at birth.
You want to talk? Wendigo, I know a cry for help when I see one. You’re not just the next in an endless line of meat chopped up for their digestion—proportioned like lukewarm hotdogs chopped up for little baby’s bites—you have a future. Maybe this business can save you too. But you’re going to need to make an effort to embrace talent; also, be open to medicate for whatever terrors you’re reliving every match.
Some people come into matches blind against new talent. I can’t afford ignorance—not with Havoc looming over us all. This is moving day for the weak when everybody picks a buck and takes their shot. So, this one must be a W, lest I be forgotten again under all the mass of humanity.
Which means I dissected your game down to the “nitty gritty” on my operating table. I found someone whose past chases them. And you’re there every day on the defensive—a victim desperately outrunning Christine’s headlights in King’s mid-80’s thriller—with the right amount of fucked up gore that would give GWAR a boner. You do realize, however, that hemophilic porphyria in modern wrestling sucks more than Leto playing Morbius. It’s also the fast track to career-ending hepatitis.”
Teijin looks down at a crumpled pack of smokes.
“I gave up my trash habits. Now I’m holding my own against talent to the likes of Carter Shaw, a former world champion. Sure, he bested me, but a year ago I would’ve been jobbed back to the curtains.
My point: You have a chance to develop. There’s room for improvement. First, stop all this vamp crap because the business and our adoring fans won’t support a skin walker unless it’s Leo eating raw fish for an Academy Award. We’re persnickety in our wrestling in AW, not unless you think you can be a monster to the likes of Obi or Metzger. My advice: see a good dentist and then a plastic surgeon for that broke ass mug. Become someone worth their love. You have the ring talent and spunk to survive; otherwise, you’ll just find yourself licking up your own blood for a long, long time.”
Cut to black.