Title opportunities and thirsty has beens (1854)
Sept 15, 2022 16:16:29 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Tatiana, and 1 more like this
Post by Holden Ross on Sept 15, 2022 16:16:29 GMT -5
Late Monday night/early Tuesday morning
"They think by putting me in this match, I will either win, and shut up, or get my ass kicked and maybe I will go away." Holden's words play over a black screen initially and, as he scoffs, it fades in on his face and shoulders. He is alone, in the dark somewhere, with a light shining on only him from above. The hood on his hoodie is pulled up and covers his head while blanketing his face in shadows. He lifts a blunt to his lips and takes a pull from it. The orange glow from the cherry on the tip shines in his eyes. When he exhales, the smoke trickles from his nostrils and frames his face briefly. "Pasternak put me in this match with two of the companies most well known names and the new scrub I just beat. He added in a shot at the United States Championship as an afterthought. For me, personally, I could give a shit about that belt."
The camera pulls back slightly and shows that he is sitting on a folding chair and when he moves, even slightly, the chain from his wallet clinks against the chair. He takes another long pull from the blunt before pitching the "roach" into the darkness off camera. A plume of smoke rolls out of him and hangs in the air around him. Over his shoulder, in the darkness, the glow from the cherry of a joint or cigarette can be seen now and then. the sound of metal being dragged across cement is heard for just a moment before the silence returns.
"Just a few days ago I rolled up one of my competitors on Clash. Brent Alpine and I met in a match that I'm sure management was expecting one of two outcomes from; either I maul Brent or he beats me and embarrasses me. Neither of which happened. And, after getting beat in his tepid return to the ring, he is rewarded with a chance to face the United States Champ." Holden gives a slow, flat clap. He continues after the third clap. "Congratulations Mister Alpine, participation trophies for everyone!"
Holden shakes his head in disgust while popping a fresh blunt into his mouth. The shadows blanketing his face melt away when he sparks his lighter and applies the flame to the tip of the blunt. Holden takes three long pulls from the blunt, puffing out small clouds, before taking one loooooong pull. Smoke leaks from his nostrils and some is caught within the hoodie, casting a thin veil over his eyes. in several spots in the darkness behind him, the glow of the cherry of a joint or blunt can be seen.
"The second guy in this multi-man cluster is Kyle Kemp. Not gonna lie, from what I've seen of Kyle, he's no slouch. Hell, wouldn't surprise me to find out he's the odds on favorite to win if it's not Dion. From what I've been able to find out, he use to run with the former World champ and CJ Phoenix before turning on em. I've recently had something similar happen to me. You're just a better, shinier version of Joey Scala; a pile of dog shit with in a nice package. But you will bleed just like everyone else does. You're no different."
While puffing on the blunt, with the blunt being held firmly in place with his lips, he pulls back his hood and allows the light to touch his face. Pale gray paint covers his fast with slightly darker paint create hollows under her eyes as well as making his nose appear sunken in; much like a skull.
"The final man in this match is someone I am quite familiar with. He and I slugged it out earlier this year and I have been looking forward to this moment for awhile now. When we first met, I was apart of GRINDHOUSE while he held the Tag belts with Downfall as apart of Vanguard. While Dion's partner is an extraordinary talent on his own, together, Vanguard is one of the top Tag Teams in the business. That being said, I believe whole heartedly that, had I had a competent partner, Vanguard would have lost that night. Woulda, shoulda, coulda; I never should have ignored my gut instinct about Joey.
But this isn't about Joey. Or Downfall. OR the Tag Team Championships. This is about being the number one contender to whomever the United States Champ is at the next pay-per-view. Dion, I've wanted to trade some right hands again for awhile now. Granted, there are two others in this match with us but I know at some point, we will square off. The fans want it and I hope you're lookin forward to it as much as I am. This time I don't have an anchor around my neck in the form of Scala. If nothing else, I'll see to it neither you nor Alpine walk out with the Title shot...."
The camera pulls out and we can see all of Holden, in a pair of black cut-off Dickies and all black Chucks. He takes one last, long pull before pulling the cherry off and dropping it next to his foot. He smothers it under foot while exhaling the cloud of smoke above his head. He smirks while slowly, the scene begins to brighten as the dimness of the lights is decreased. It is revealed that amassed behind him are maybe three dozen, if not more, masked individuals. They are all built differently. Some are fat and some are yoked and obviously on the gas. Tattooed, not tattooed. Man and woman. Nearly forty in total and each one with a ski mask on and some also have black bandana's tied around the lower half of their faces. Holden's smirk grows into a shit eating grin.
"It doesn't matter what city we are in; I will always have friends like these who are ready to give me a hand. The United States Championship is just another belt. Winning it doesn't mean as much to me as it might the other three guys in the match with me. I will get to fight whether I'm holding gold or not. Being the United States Champion would only bring out more people hating me...." He shrugs with a grin. "I don't see a problem there. I guess it wouldn't be all that bad, huh?" Holden strokes his chin thoughtfully. "See you boys, soon. And, when the dust settle, maybe I'll be number one contender? Maybe not. But there will be fresh blood spilled, I can guarantee that." As the camera fades out, Holden's masked contingent of hoodlums surround him while he smirks at the camera.
Tuesday September thirteenth, 3:04pm
Holden is sitting on his couch in Vero Beach and has just finished rolling the last of seven blunts. Just as his tongue drags across the edge of the cigar wrap to be pressed down and sealed, his phone buzzes. He sets the blunt on the table top next to the other six and reaches for his phone. It has a twitter notification and he presses it, opening the tweet from [/b]Corey Black[/b] and his eyes narrow initially. His brow quickly creases into a frown and his jaw clenches. Fuck Corey Black! He fires up a blunt and sends of his reply in what became an extended back-and-forth between the two.
Serenity was frustrated with both men. She watches Holden typing a reply while smoking on the balcony and came to a conclusion. She walked out onto the patio and snatched the phone out of his hand. Before he can react she has put it in her left hand and has it held over the rail. Nothing but forty feet of open air before the ground would break its fall....no pun intended. He lets out a slow sigh and extends his hand, his palm turned up towards the sky. "Give it back, babe. That fuckin asshole -"
"Is my Uncle! Look, I know you're not going to stop but think about it, what does it get you? How does talking shit on Twitter achieve anything?! It's a dick measuring contest online!" her voice is stern and her eyes are steel. "Give it back to me, Serenity." his voice remains calm and even but if you examine closely, his hands are trembling. She knows under the surface he is seething. "No." she tells him matter-of-factly and returns back into the condo. Holden's teeth grind under the pressure of him clenching his jaw. He watches her as she leaves his sight, walking down the hall towards their room, and slams his fist down on the table top.
Wednesday September fourteenth 9:40am
His phone chimed again, alerting another mention on Twitter and she saw it was Action Wrestling's new alert account. They were apparently stirring the pot now, as well. She was happy to see he bit his tongue and replied with a gif rather than engaging in another round of Twitter ranting.
Thursday Sept ninth
Holden parks in one of the staff spots at Champions Advantage Performance Center and watches as several people approach his Cayenne. With a grumble he slides out from the drivers seat and shuts the door. He notices all three men are holding their phones near their faces and, when one of the asks a question, he slaps the phone out of his hand before he can finish asking. The other two presumed "reporters" scramble out of the line of fire and watch as he disappears within. Buster Gloves gives him a nod of "Hello" and Holden returns it on his way to the locker rooms.
He gets changed and heads out to the ring where one of his students is already eagerly waiting. His name is "Hijo de la Muerta," the "Son of Death, and at times he makes ya believe he is just that. He has no fear and, this morning, he is bouncing from one foot to the other, ready to spar. The young man has his face and head covered with a red mask with a skull design making up the face. Holden lumbers into the ring around the time Buster entered the gym. Much to his dismay, he heard "Hijo" do the unthinkable; talk shit to Holden.
"Corey Black is really roastin your nuts, eh, Holden?" he says with a chuckle. Holden tugs his right glove onto his hand, and only his right glove. Buster breathes in to yell at Holden to stop but it's too late. Holden takes two quick, lunging steps which close the gap between himself and Hijo. Hijo's chuckle is still tumbling out of his lips when Holden's right hand connects with Hijo's jaw as well as what Holden calls the "night-night button." The student's feet come off the mat as the young man is sent back several feet where he crash lands on his face....
"They think by putting me in this match, I will either win, and shut up, or get my ass kicked and maybe I will go away." Holden's words play over a black screen initially and, as he scoffs, it fades in on his face and shoulders. He is alone, in the dark somewhere, with a light shining on only him from above. The hood on his hoodie is pulled up and covers his head while blanketing his face in shadows. He lifts a blunt to his lips and takes a pull from it. The orange glow from the cherry on the tip shines in his eyes. When he exhales, the smoke trickles from his nostrils and frames his face briefly. "Pasternak put me in this match with two of the companies most well known names and the new scrub I just beat. He added in a shot at the United States Championship as an afterthought. For me, personally, I could give a shit about that belt."
The camera pulls back slightly and shows that he is sitting on a folding chair and when he moves, even slightly, the chain from his wallet clinks against the chair. He takes another long pull from the blunt before pitching the "roach" into the darkness off camera. A plume of smoke rolls out of him and hangs in the air around him. Over his shoulder, in the darkness, the glow from the cherry of a joint or cigarette can be seen now and then. the sound of metal being dragged across cement is heard for just a moment before the silence returns.
"Just a few days ago I rolled up one of my competitors on Clash. Brent Alpine and I met in a match that I'm sure management was expecting one of two outcomes from; either I maul Brent or he beats me and embarrasses me. Neither of which happened. And, after getting beat in his tepid return to the ring, he is rewarded with a chance to face the United States Champ." Holden gives a slow, flat clap. He continues after the third clap. "Congratulations Mister Alpine, participation trophies for everyone!"
Holden shakes his head in disgust while popping a fresh blunt into his mouth. The shadows blanketing his face melt away when he sparks his lighter and applies the flame to the tip of the blunt. Holden takes three long pulls from the blunt, puffing out small clouds, before taking one loooooong pull. Smoke leaks from his nostrils and some is caught within the hoodie, casting a thin veil over his eyes. in several spots in the darkness behind him, the glow of the cherry of a joint or blunt can be seen.
"The second guy in this multi-man cluster is Kyle Kemp. Not gonna lie, from what I've seen of Kyle, he's no slouch. Hell, wouldn't surprise me to find out he's the odds on favorite to win if it's not Dion. From what I've been able to find out, he use to run with the former World champ and CJ Phoenix before turning on em. I've recently had something similar happen to me. You're just a better, shinier version of Joey Scala; a pile of dog shit with in a nice package. But you will bleed just like everyone else does. You're no different."
While puffing on the blunt, with the blunt being held firmly in place with his lips, he pulls back his hood and allows the light to touch his face. Pale gray paint covers his fast with slightly darker paint create hollows under her eyes as well as making his nose appear sunken in; much like a skull.
"The final man in this match is someone I am quite familiar with. He and I slugged it out earlier this year and I have been looking forward to this moment for awhile now. When we first met, I was apart of GRINDHOUSE while he held the Tag belts with Downfall as apart of Vanguard. While Dion's partner is an extraordinary talent on his own, together, Vanguard is one of the top Tag Teams in the business. That being said, I believe whole heartedly that, had I had a competent partner, Vanguard would have lost that night. Woulda, shoulda, coulda; I never should have ignored my gut instinct about Joey.
But this isn't about Joey. Or Downfall. OR the Tag Team Championships. This is about being the number one contender to whomever the United States Champ is at the next pay-per-view. Dion, I've wanted to trade some right hands again for awhile now. Granted, there are two others in this match with us but I know at some point, we will square off. The fans want it and I hope you're lookin forward to it as much as I am. This time I don't have an anchor around my neck in the form of Scala. If nothing else, I'll see to it neither you nor Alpine walk out with the Title shot...."
The camera pulls out and we can see all of Holden, in a pair of black cut-off Dickies and all black Chucks. He takes one last, long pull before pulling the cherry off and dropping it next to his foot. He smothers it under foot while exhaling the cloud of smoke above his head. He smirks while slowly, the scene begins to brighten as the dimness of the lights is decreased. It is revealed that amassed behind him are maybe three dozen, if not more, masked individuals. They are all built differently. Some are fat and some are yoked and obviously on the gas. Tattooed, not tattooed. Man and woman. Nearly forty in total and each one with a ski mask on and some also have black bandana's tied around the lower half of their faces. Holden's smirk grows into a shit eating grin.
"It doesn't matter what city we are in; I will always have friends like these who are ready to give me a hand. The United States Championship is just another belt. Winning it doesn't mean as much to me as it might the other three guys in the match with me. I will get to fight whether I'm holding gold or not. Being the United States Champion would only bring out more people hating me...." He shrugs with a grin. "I don't see a problem there. I guess it wouldn't be all that bad, huh?" Holden strokes his chin thoughtfully. "See you boys, soon. And, when the dust settle, maybe I'll be number one contender? Maybe not. But there will be fresh blood spilled, I can guarantee that." As the camera fades out, Holden's masked contingent of hoodlums surround him while he smirks at the camera.
Tuesday September thirteenth, 3:04pm
Holden is sitting on his couch in Vero Beach and has just finished rolling the last of seven blunts. Just as his tongue drags across the edge of the cigar wrap to be pressed down and sealed, his phone buzzes. He sets the blunt on the table top next to the other six and reaches for his phone. It has a twitter notification and he presses it, opening the tweet from [/b]Corey Black[/b] and his eyes narrow initially. His brow quickly creases into a frown and his jaw clenches. Fuck Corey Black! He fires up a blunt and sends of his reply in what became an extended back-and-forth between the two.
Serenity was frustrated with both men. She watches Holden typing a reply while smoking on the balcony and came to a conclusion. She walked out onto the patio and snatched the phone out of his hand. Before he can react she has put it in her left hand and has it held over the rail. Nothing but forty feet of open air before the ground would break its fall....no pun intended. He lets out a slow sigh and extends his hand, his palm turned up towards the sky. "Give it back, babe. That fuckin asshole -"
"Is my Uncle! Look, I know you're not going to stop but think about it, what does it get you? How does talking shit on Twitter achieve anything?! It's a dick measuring contest online!" her voice is stern and her eyes are steel. "Give it back to me, Serenity." his voice remains calm and even but if you examine closely, his hands are trembling. She knows under the surface he is seething. "No." she tells him matter-of-factly and returns back into the condo. Holden's teeth grind under the pressure of him clenching his jaw. He watches her as she leaves his sight, walking down the hall towards their room, and slams his fist down on the table top.
Wednesday September fourteenth 9:40am
His phone chimed again, alerting another mention on Twitter and she saw it was Action Wrestling's new alert account. They were apparently stirring the pot now, as well. She was happy to see he bit his tongue and replied with a gif rather than engaging in another round of Twitter ranting.
Thursday Sept ninth
Holden parks in one of the staff spots at Champions Advantage Performance Center and watches as several people approach his Cayenne. With a grumble he slides out from the drivers seat and shuts the door. He notices all three men are holding their phones near their faces and, when one of the asks a question, he slaps the phone out of his hand before he can finish asking. The other two presumed "reporters" scramble out of the line of fire and watch as he disappears within. Buster Gloves gives him a nod of "Hello" and Holden returns it on his way to the locker rooms.
He gets changed and heads out to the ring where one of his students is already eagerly waiting. His name is "Hijo de la Muerta," the "Son of Death, and at times he makes ya believe he is just that. He has no fear and, this morning, he is bouncing from one foot to the other, ready to spar. The young man has his face and head covered with a red mask with a skull design making up the face. Holden lumbers into the ring around the time Buster entered the gym. Much to his dismay, he heard "Hijo" do the unthinkable; talk shit to Holden.
"Corey Black is really roastin your nuts, eh, Holden?" he says with a chuckle. Holden tugs his right glove onto his hand, and only his right glove. Buster breathes in to yell at Holden to stop but it's too late. Holden takes two quick, lunging steps which close the gap between himself and Hijo. Hijo's chuckle is still tumbling out of his lips when Holden's right hand connects with Hijo's jaw as well as what Holden calls the "night-night button." The student's feet come off the mat as the young man is sent back several feet where he crash lands on his face....
