Post by Deleted on Sept 18, 2022 0:06:37 GMT -5
It all seemed ceremonial with gifts, blessing and even a Shinto priest from his cloistered shack; however, year three held a heavier sky. Everyone remotely Masuda held themselves to austere character in observance of the third anniversary of Masuda Jubei’s death. When then prodigal son, and now former Hardcore Champion, Teijin arrived disheveled and behind polarized sunglasses. His mother then prodded him forward for his own blessing—wherein he siphoned their unwavering respect into vitriol.
“Here lies my uncle. He is dead, and if this sky could speak, it’d agree that we’re in a better place without him. Gasp—I don’t care anymore. This family thrusts me into a sport of which I had only amateur skill and expected me to succeed against veteran wrestlers. I suffered for years trying to find my place in Action Wrestling. Yokohama, meanwhile, oils this rotting corpse like Puroresu Christ. I’d spit but that’s not worth indignation nor equal to what his legacy put me through. I learned many hard lessons… none more painful than self-reliance. Yet here before the grave of “The Master,” “The King of Darkness,” the man killed in vain for a chance to prove that he could be AW’s Hardcore Champion. Guess what, Master Jubei? I did it! I won that fucking belt—and I did it for me! I am the king of this family now.”
He appeared, if not a moment too long, to have prepared to spit on Jubei’s grave. Instead, he buttoned up his coat and left. His sister trailed for a moment, only to have their mother restrain her.
Masuda looks into his mirror.
“Dark King, what am I to do about the world now that I am merely a hardcore goon, and not a noble leader? The face of a diehard division that has served me well throughout this summer. I rose at Evolution V and prospered until Uprising. To say that I was embarrassed by Stephen Singh is an understatement. But I was correct: He is not any form of hardcore icon. Even sans-title I remain my place as its locker room leader. Vengeance will come for you, Stephen, and it will be purer than before. Singh fears me… haunting his dreams and every dark corner. Soon, my friend, I will rescue that belt from your cowardly clutches.
This week I am to attack the roster in ways unfathomable. Whoever thought a street fight was a good means to contain my rage has never met me at this state. Honor died the moment I lost my master. Now a ronin without lord nor castle to defend, I must make my own way through Action Wrestling once again.
Perhaps I begin where most have since my first title run: Defeat Robby “Big Dick”. I’m calling you Robb because you’re throbbing presence in the Hardcore Division has excited few and exasperated even less. Jessie Lee turned you to tricks, and Singh rolled you up like the fool you are. Everyone needs a gimp, I guess, but you’ve only been here long enough to shout atop your forever gatekeeper station. You have, in most cases, been maître d’AW while opening doors like any peasant of this division should. Expect your executive chef as he drowns another thick-headed saucier in your soupy, disgusting bechamel.
Who am in the lineage of champions if I cannot assert dominance of the ring as the fans suspect? Dropping enhancement talents like Robb won’t speckle the cracks in my destiny. But decapitating the rise of “The Urban Guerrilla” should suffice.”
He turns off the lights.
“Ahh… shadows, my oldest friends. Even as I towered over the Hardcore Division, I observed talent capable of competing in my division. Kano, you struct immediately one worthy of our sanguine pageantry. Then you held the CBS Title for a hot minute. You did so with the same oblong shaft of every upstart talent. Even continuing this streak by discrediting the acumen of one Jessie Lee. I don’t protect the tombstones in my division, but I find it curious when you consider her record… did you also look and see what caused her so much torment and anguish? Or was it just part of your superiority complex that covers itself in literal body armor so you God-mode your way into Action Wrestling?
You stopped to consider that she had so many losses because I cut her down like an Aussie bushwhacker. Then she tried to save face but lost multiple times to Stephen Singh—only beating him on technicality of my recent meddling. You’re not even on my radar anymore since Odin Balfore turned your halfhearted bully routine into a fine Samoan ottoman. I beat Odin years ago when he was younger, more focused, and only weeks before capturing the AW Title. Yes, the BIG ONE, Spam-a-lot. What’d you do but call that boomer as it was: A man wrestling for fan access hand jobs, petite glories and health insurance. Yet you couldn’t even do what congestive heat failure will someday: His final fragnarok.
The problem is that we’re supposed to engage in a street fight. What old promoters knew settled bad blood when they couldn’t afford a steel cage. You, and bigus dickus, have to settle my score with Singh before I actually get to wring out his fragile chicken neck and recapture my Hardcore Title. So when I cry Stephen while curb stomping you rejects like Sonny Corleone, know that it’s not my desires or stray ejaculates, it’s because this week is dress rehearsal for the destruction of Stephen Singh. Thank you, of course, for agreeing to stand in his place as I practice new means of torture worthy of a Hardcore Champion. My banner shall rise again, but not before my rage has feasted.”
The lights return and Masuda is covered in barbwire.
“Ronin hath no master… so he shall build a new kingdom in his own likeness.”
“Here lies my uncle. He is dead, and if this sky could speak, it’d agree that we’re in a better place without him. Gasp—I don’t care anymore. This family thrusts me into a sport of which I had only amateur skill and expected me to succeed against veteran wrestlers. I suffered for years trying to find my place in Action Wrestling. Yokohama, meanwhile, oils this rotting corpse like Puroresu Christ. I’d spit but that’s not worth indignation nor equal to what his legacy put me through. I learned many hard lessons… none more painful than self-reliance. Yet here before the grave of “The Master,” “The King of Darkness,” the man killed in vain for a chance to prove that he could be AW’s Hardcore Champion. Guess what, Master Jubei? I did it! I won that fucking belt—and I did it for me! I am the king of this family now.”
He appeared, if not a moment too long, to have prepared to spit on Jubei’s grave. Instead, he buttoned up his coat and left. His sister trailed for a moment, only to have their mother restrain her.
Masuda looks into his mirror.
“Dark King, what am I to do about the world now that I am merely a hardcore goon, and not a noble leader? The face of a diehard division that has served me well throughout this summer. I rose at Evolution V and prospered until Uprising. To say that I was embarrassed by Stephen Singh is an understatement. But I was correct: He is not any form of hardcore icon. Even sans-title I remain my place as its locker room leader. Vengeance will come for you, Stephen, and it will be purer than before. Singh fears me… haunting his dreams and every dark corner. Soon, my friend, I will rescue that belt from your cowardly clutches.
This week I am to attack the roster in ways unfathomable. Whoever thought a street fight was a good means to contain my rage has never met me at this state. Honor died the moment I lost my master. Now a ronin without lord nor castle to defend, I must make my own way through Action Wrestling once again.
Perhaps I begin where most have since my first title run: Defeat Robby “Big Dick”. I’m calling you Robb because you’re throbbing presence in the Hardcore Division has excited few and exasperated even less. Jessie Lee turned you to tricks, and Singh rolled you up like the fool you are. Everyone needs a gimp, I guess, but you’ve only been here long enough to shout atop your forever gatekeeper station. You have, in most cases, been maître d’AW while opening doors like any peasant of this division should. Expect your executive chef as he drowns another thick-headed saucier in your soupy, disgusting bechamel.
Who am in the lineage of champions if I cannot assert dominance of the ring as the fans suspect? Dropping enhancement talents like Robb won’t speckle the cracks in my destiny. But decapitating the rise of “The Urban Guerrilla” should suffice.”
He turns off the lights.
“Ahh… shadows, my oldest friends. Even as I towered over the Hardcore Division, I observed talent capable of competing in my division. Kano, you struct immediately one worthy of our sanguine pageantry. Then you held the CBS Title for a hot minute. You did so with the same oblong shaft of every upstart talent. Even continuing this streak by discrediting the acumen of one Jessie Lee. I don’t protect the tombstones in my division, but I find it curious when you consider her record… did you also look and see what caused her so much torment and anguish? Or was it just part of your superiority complex that covers itself in literal body armor so you God-mode your way into Action Wrestling?
You stopped to consider that she had so many losses because I cut her down like an Aussie bushwhacker. Then she tried to save face but lost multiple times to Stephen Singh—only beating him on technicality of my recent meddling. You’re not even on my radar anymore since Odin Balfore turned your halfhearted bully routine into a fine Samoan ottoman. I beat Odin years ago when he was younger, more focused, and only weeks before capturing the AW Title. Yes, the BIG ONE, Spam-a-lot. What’d you do but call that boomer as it was: A man wrestling for fan access hand jobs, petite glories and health insurance. Yet you couldn’t even do what congestive heat failure will someday: His final fragnarok.
The problem is that we’re supposed to engage in a street fight. What old promoters knew settled bad blood when they couldn’t afford a steel cage. You, and bigus dickus, have to settle my score with Singh before I actually get to wring out his fragile chicken neck and recapture my Hardcore Title. So when I cry Stephen while curb stomping you rejects like Sonny Corleone, know that it’s not my desires or stray ejaculates, it’s because this week is dress rehearsal for the destruction of Stephen Singh. Thank you, of course, for agreeing to stand in his place as I practice new means of torture worthy of a Hardcore Champion. My banner shall rise again, but not before my rage has feasted.”
The lights return and Masuda is covered in barbwire.
“Ronin hath no master… so he shall build a new kingdom in his own likeness.”
