Post by Gerard Angelo on May 7, 2023 19:35:37 GMT -5
The impact of each step jolted through his body as Gerard ran, hair matted to his forehead with sweat as droplets continued to pour down his face. He hastily dragged his forearm across his face, droplets of sweat flying, landing on the scorching pavement. Gerard adjusted the training dummy on his bare shoulders as he ran, the rough fabric of the old item digging into the back of his neck. He muttered to himself not for the first time about Jonathon’s training methods. He could’ve just done gassers in the gym but no, he’s out running in the desert. Jon said they needed to up the training techniques because he, as Jon put it, was ‘looking like a bag of ass out there’. Gerry couldn’t help but smirk slightly. While not that eloquent, Jon had a way of getting straight to the point. Since losing the title he hasn’t been himself. He might have been the last person eliminated in the Chamber but he was still eliminated. He didn’t qualify for Battlebowl and was losing to has-beens like FVP. It was spiraling out of control.
He felt like Austin Powers losing his mojo. That’s why he returned to where he was trained in Southern California, Starsmore Academy. Jon suggested getting back to basics. Gerard agreed as nothing he was doing currently was helping him get through this rough patch. That’s why Gerry was out in Nevada, carrying this 180-pound dummy through the desert. He stopped his motion to rest a second, tossing the sweat-soaked dummy carelessly onto the asphalt. Gerard looked behind him and saw nothing but heat haze. He furrowed his brow. Jon was supposed to be following him in his car so he didn’t die of heatstroke. So of a bitch, he thought to himself. Gerry reached into a shorts pocket for his phone so he could call Jon and curse him out but it cut off his music to his AirPods. He thought it was Jon but it said call from Deon. Gerry double-tapped his earphone.
“Aye D. What’s the word?”
“Hey, man. We gotta talk.”
“I’m here, bro,” Gerry said, propping a foot on the dummy’s head as he leaned over, “What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Jim McDaniel from Paramount.”
“You telling me we got a deal done? That’s why you’re the GOAT, my guy. Just e-mail the script and I’ll take a look after Hav-”
“Gerry!” Deon yelled to cut him off. Gerard stopped talking.
“There’s no script. They scrapped the deal.”
“Why?” Gerard asked, shocked, “They wouldn’t stop calling for months.”
“I know but they said you’re just not that hot of a commodity right now.”
“His loss I guess,” Gerry said, slightly annoyed, “Let’s get back on the phone with Disney and Warner Brothers. See if we can get those superhero movies back on.”
“I already called. No one is interested right now.”
“I see,” Gerry said as he stared out across the hot, orange, sand that stretched out for miles.
“I’m sorry, man. I’ll try to get something cooking but you need to handle your end. This losing streak isn’t doing us any favors.”
“Noted. I gotta go, D. I got training to finish.”
Gerard ended the call without waiting for a reply. He continued to stare at the empty waste of sand before delivering a stiff kick to the featureless head of the training. He had to do something big.
I stand at a great crossroads in my career. I realize that. My arrogance would’ve blinded me to something like this in my younger years. Recently I’ve been trying to be more self-aware. I face choices of which direction my career will go. I can continue my fall from grace, becoming a shell of myself where people tell me “You used to be good”. Or I can grab the proverbial bull by its horns and launch myself back to the top of the mountain. Either choice will be decided by my own two hands.
Yes, I’m talking about Havoc you fucking dorks. My one last shot at revenge for the biggest screw job in Action Wrestling history. That’s what this is about. Gerard Angelo comes back to reclaim the prize that was stolen from him in the main event of the biggest wrestling show in history. It’s not about Carter Shaw going back-to-back or whatever faux underdog story Lissie Hope tries to sell you. It’s not about Dionysus finally taking that leap forward or Odin trying to reclaim his ancient glory.
This is about a story that started over a year ago when Jill threw me out of Havoc. It’s going to come full circle, in the same arena I was robbed. I win Havoc. I go to Evolution. I take the World title from Jill Park and rub it into Tortellini’s sour face. That is what has to happen. I have to make it happen. Havoc is my last chance to stop this downward spiral. I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not going to sit back and take whatever morsel Torture decides to throw to you like a dog while he and Jill Park sit at the table and get fat. No, I’m going to kick the door in and pull up a chair to the table and interrupt their romantic candlelight gorging, take the big piece of chicken off their plate, and stare them in the eye while my teeth tear flesh and sinew from the bone. I’m going to take what is mine and slap seven shades of shit out of thirty or so morons in my way and win Havoc.
Tony Angelo sat in his office with the door closed, staring out the massive windows that looked out over the Bay Area. The man looked gaunt as if he was withering away by the minute. His suits barely fit him now, the articles of clothing looking like they could fall from his bones with little movement. Most people chalked it up to simple stress. An upcoming merger of two massive tech companies combined with a child due in mere weeks could have a profound effect on any man.
Tony was glad for those excuses. It stopped people from asking too many questions. At least the ones he couldn’t answer. This situation was supposed to be resolved by now. This entire thing wasn’t supposed to be happening. He knew that. It was only going to be a quick fix but Doctor Winthrope got too greedy. He wanted more funding but offered little to nothing in return. Even now the doctor refused to answer his phone.
Tony dug two fingers into the collar of his shirt and pulled at it as sweat dripped down his face. Even with the A/C cranked it felt like he would burst into flames at any moment. Why wouldn’t the Doctor answer? He knew he wasn’t because Tony wasn’t ready. Hell, he wasn’t even Tony.
The thing with Tony’s face raised a gaunt hand and lifted up the smartphone off the desk to call again when he caught a look at his reflection. Sullen eyes and a staved face stared back, his once lustrous black hair thin and streaked with grey. His hand ached as he unlocked it, feeling his thin skin crack open pressing the screen. The thing watched as his call was sent to voicemail. In a rage, the creature snarled and slammed a fist down on the desk and watched as his hand broke apart in a supernova of blood and decaying flesh. He stared at the remnants of his hand, little pieces still plopping down onto the desk. The creature broke down sobbing, even if each sob sent rivers of pain throughout his body.
I guess I should say something about the aforementioned morons, huh? Why don’t we start off with the person who is number one? Tatiana look at you finally gaining some relevance here after months on end of bitching and moaning about your spot. I didn’t think the self-proclaimed “best rassler” would have to whine their way into a title shot. And you were so close, right? So close to finally being able to say I told you so. You could taste it, couldn’t you TJ? And it was torn away at the very last second. Now imagine having that title and defeating all comers only to have it stolen from you. There’s a line here for revenge and you need to get to the back of it, granny. I’ve seen and heard the things you say about me, TJ. I just don’t acknowledge them because you couldn’t lace my fucking boots on your best day. The reason I’m a top-tier star isn’t because of politicking, it’s because I fucking earned my spot with blood and sweat. If you were worth your weight in salt you’d have already achieved this instead of crying about it until they just want you to shut the fuck up. You think shit should be handed to you because you wrestle like it’s 1876. I’m sick of this “better than you” attitude you got because you learned how to wrestle in some stuffy basement in Canada while some old has-been got his rocks off rubbing up against teens. You don’t need a title shot, you need a therapist.
But TJ’s entitled ass doesn’t hold a candle to Lissie Hope. Hi Lissie. I put you in the beginning so your narcissistic ass doesn’t need to fast forward to hear about yourself. I wonder what self-righteous bullshit you’re gonna spew this time around. Possibly something about you being this massive underdog despite the fact you’re one title away from having held every title in the company. You can’t play that woe-is-me nonsense anymore, Lissie. You became a dynasty. You’re fucking Alabama now. Even if it was by jumping down to the B show and completely stealing their opportunities. I’m sure you’re gonna say you’re winning Havoc to make some super “girl power” main event at Evolution between you and Jillybean. Please God, no. I’d rather subscribe to your OnlyFans and look at pictures of your asshole than listen to you pretend to be a feminist for a month. You can talk about being the Women’s champ but this is about the big gold belt that makes the World go round. The last thing we need is you turning the main event of Evolution into another Lissie Hope melodrama because you need everyone’s attention on you at all times or it’s the end of the fucking world. Stick to playing sorority flag football for Twitter clout. This is my Havoc to win. Let that hit you like a camera to the back of the head.
Downfall you beady-eyed fuck. I know you’re just sitting there in the dark, sensually rubbing the hook of the crowbar against your pasty skin. I still owe you a receipt for ruining my Wrestler of the Year goals. I couldn’t think of a better way than tossing you out of the ring personally and making sure you keep social distancing from the World title. Or is it actually this time you don't care because you’re revitalizing the Hardcore division? You realized you couldn’t hang in the open ocean with the rest of us apex predators so you jumped to a small pond, a muck puddle in this case, so you could call yourself the king of it. Easy to be the best in a division populated by the likes of Robbie Baby Dick and that greasy fuck Scala. You romanticizing this garbage wrestling that became antiquated when the nineties ended is just a fucking sad attempt to keep this image that you’re far superior to everyone at anything. You had to turn to the lowest form of the sport to keep from drowning. They may chant that you’re going to kill whoever you face now but this whole “Angry Danny” thing you’re doing stems from the fact you sobbed at night from mean tweets. You were winning World titles and setting records. Now you’re nothing more than a shell of yourself, resorting to using a crowbar on guys who learned how to wrestle on trampolines. You’re pathetic.
Good ol’ Corey Black is in this match. That’s no shock, right? Bro’s always gotta be in the title mix, no matter what. Even if he’s more of a nostalgia act these days. CB always gonna get that pop despite his endeavors having been less than in recent history. You can point to the Tag titles and the Hardcore title but one is held teaming up with a seven-foot behemoth and the other is a division where bums in the business find a home. It’s like a free spot on a bingo card. You lost a step, your grace. CCP ain’t here this year so what’s your excuse going to be when you fail this time? Them new boots too slippery? The light got in your eyes? I wanna toss you out myself. This might be the only time I get my hands on you since all my challenges fell on deaf ears. I plan on personally sending you back on another excursion so you can beat up dorks in the Indies.
I didn’t forget about you either, Odin, you big fucking Stegosaurus. You’ll always have a special place in my ADub legacy. You were the first name brand whose ass I whooped here. You remember when I knocked your has-been ass out in that hardcore match? You might not since you were busy talking to your hands and playing footsie with Adele. Since then you were treading water here, fighting dudes like Kyrie King and Kano. You needed your buddy CB to lift you out of the looming obscurity and form the Has-Been Bros. Stretch that career out a little longer so they can’t bury you softly, brother. Do you think after all that you’re going to Evolution? You got a better chance of raw-dogging Rihanna. You ain’t going home empty handed though. You gonna be able to tell everyone at the shuffleboard table how you got slapped upside the head by Gerard Angelo, the winner of Havoc.
You still mad at me Dionysus? Will we chuckle about that one day on Twitter and then you can compliment me on my torso length or something? If it’s any consolation, you did push me the hardest, Dion. When you’re serious, though. The question is will that determined, focused, Dionysus show up with a chip on his shoulder? Or is that dude who likes to throw one-liners and make niche jokes gonna be the one stepping up to me only to get the red slapped out of your beard? If you think you’re winning Havoc then Downfall hit you too fucking hard with that crowbar. Remember, you’re not that guy, pal.
I’m starting to understand why everyone can’t fucking stand you, Carter. You’ve been running your mouth for a bit that the only reason I rose to prominence was your absence. Check the fucking tape, Shaw. I pinned your fucking ass in the number-one contenders match and sent you home to lick your wounds. I bet you got grand plans to win Havoc again. Here’s a reality check for you. No one wants to watch Carter Shaw shit his fucking pants for a second consecutive year. You got all this momentum though, winning Battlebowl, getting to come in last. Coming in the favorite just like your hometown Bruins, right? You can call me a Florida Panther, Saint, ‘cause you about to blow a 3-1 lead. Park’s head isn’t yours to mount on your wall, it’s mine to impale on a spike.
We even got more representation from the B show as well. Hi Serenity and Teo. You both look so cute with your little cosplay titles, running around like you’re real wrestlers like us on Clash. I’m sure this is the part where Serenity shows me a belt she won in some backwater fed I’ve never heard of and expects me to take her seriously. Teo is probably getting ready to read off his Cruiserweight title history like it matters. Being the best Cruiserweight is like being the best team in the AFC South. You might make the playoffs but you’re gonna get sent to Cancun by Mahomes. Serenity, focus on your Cruiserweight title. You just get a new boo and automatically start looking for another? Greedy ass. Teo focus on your little tag belts and whatever it is you do with Jensen. Leave the big belt for the big guys on the big show.
You got the rest of the field out here sitting with those heavy underdog odds that you look at when you only got ten dollars and a dream to your name. Max Daemon’s gonna tell us that this time he’s taking this shit seriously, unlike all those other times he was gonna take this shit seriously. This is the same guy who got beat by a washed Connor McGregor, need I say more? FPV, buddy, you stole a win from me and we’re gonna settle up soon. I know you wanna win this and get your little revenge on Jillybean for her exposing your bitch made ankle. Like I said before, take a fucking number. And I got number one.
James Freedom looks like a conservative politician with questionable ties to human trafficking. The fact he’s holding the US title that I made famous makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe John Cedrone can save us if he’s not too busy giving Freedom a verbal hand job. You got all that money, John, and you can’t buy yourself a backbone. You don't have the cajones to carry ADub into EVO SZN. Jaice Wilds and Lazaro Vicente are in here too? Great more dorks I have to throw out of the ring. Both dudes making less of an impact on the B show than Cousin Harper. At least Vicente is handsome. Wilds looks like getting beaten with a baseball bat would be an improvement.
Ellie Austin is mad cute but she’s more worried about boys opening her Snapchats and what color prom dress she wants. You keep focusing on that, baby because you ain’t gonna have to worry bout main eventing the big show. Then there’s this guy The Sitcom. He looks like he tells everyone he’s allergic to broccoli. You out here looking like Kevin Malone but you ain’t even half as funny. It’s gonna be funny when I toss you out of Havoc and we won’t even need a laugh track.
Alister McKissick and Marcus Collins. Y’all teaming up made as much of an impact as Dillion Brooks in the first round. Alister, I’m sending you back to the CBS division. Collins, I’m sending you back to whatever dumpster you’ve been sleeping behind. Aoi Takahashi, I don’t think anyone knows much about. What I do know is if she gets in my way I’m gonna toss her ass into the third row. Doc Holiday strapped himself with some gold and now he’s looking for some more? Slow your roll, pal. The only reason you got that title is that our resident co-dictator needs to make sure he’s still getting smooches from his pet champion. You ain’t the one to stop me.
Winthrope watched his phone as he let the latest call go to voicemail. He pushed the phone further away from him on his messy desk and lifted up his snifter, taking a sip of the Brandy in it. He knew what was happening with his creation. He had woken him up too soon. The cellular structure was compromised when that happened. There was nothing he could do for it at this point. He swirled the brown liquor in the glass as he stared down into it.
He thought he would’ve felt something when the time came. He felt more surprised at his lack of compassion than anything. Maybe that would come when he met his maker. What was the punishment for trying to play God? Winthrope took another sip of the brandy, relishing that he could feel the burn.
He was doing what he was doing for the good of mankind he told himself for not the first time. His work at the potential to end disease, end deformities, and even end death. In the future, he would be looked at with the same reverence as Einstein and Wilmut, not be looked at like a half-cocked Doctor Frankenstein.
He just needed a little more time. The doctor got up from his desk and exited his office, heading into his facility. He walked down past tables littered with beakers and hastily scribbled notes to the pressurized seal door. Winthrope scanned his retina and the computer voice greeted him by name as the door popped open. He shuffled inside and walked down past the rows of containment tanks until he stopped in front of one at the end. Winthrope took another sip of his drink as he stared into the plexiglass cylinder. A man floated in the greenish-blue liquid like the day he was born, half his face covered by a breathing apparatus. Tubes and wires were stuck into his skin, some pumping nutrients and sedatives into his bloodstream, making the man look like a twisted amalgamation of flesh and machine. There was no mistaking who it was though. Winthrope put a hand on the glass.
“You’ll be out of here soon, my old friend. Just hang in there, Tony.”
I got a date with destiny. This is my Havoc to win. You see all of the pieces fitting in together perfectly. I was screwed in Los Angeles and I get my chance for redemption in the very same building. Evolution is being held in New Jersey, the state I was born in. You all can try and say it’s New York but I know the truth. And I’ll be damned if I’m letting anyone take that main event spot from the hometown hero. I’ll go through all of the obstacles and perform my labors like I’m Hercules.
This isn’t just about revenge. It’s righting a wrong. The World title is my belt and I’m coming back to claim my empire. I don’t care if I gotta go through former champs, hungry newbies, or some self-proclaimed legends. I’ll walk through seven stages of hell to get my title back.
Because I know the juice is worth the squeeze.
Jill Park and Torture made this personal. Now I don’t care if I have to tear down what Tort created brick by brick until I get my vengeance.
An eye for an eye, Jill. You took everything from me. Now I'm going to take everything from you.
I will win Havoc. I will main event Evolution. I will win the World title back.
That’s what you call a Hollywood Ending.
He felt like Austin Powers losing his mojo. That’s why he returned to where he was trained in Southern California, Starsmore Academy. Jon suggested getting back to basics. Gerard agreed as nothing he was doing currently was helping him get through this rough patch. That’s why Gerry was out in Nevada, carrying this 180-pound dummy through the desert. He stopped his motion to rest a second, tossing the sweat-soaked dummy carelessly onto the asphalt. Gerard looked behind him and saw nothing but heat haze. He furrowed his brow. Jon was supposed to be following him in his car so he didn’t die of heatstroke. So of a bitch, he thought to himself. Gerry reached into a shorts pocket for his phone so he could call Jon and curse him out but it cut off his music to his AirPods. He thought it was Jon but it said call from Deon. Gerry double-tapped his earphone.
“Aye D. What’s the word?”
“Hey, man. We gotta talk.”
“I’m here, bro,” Gerry said, propping a foot on the dummy’s head as he leaned over, “What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Jim McDaniel from Paramount.”
“You telling me we got a deal done? That’s why you’re the GOAT, my guy. Just e-mail the script and I’ll take a look after Hav-”
“Gerry!” Deon yelled to cut him off. Gerard stopped talking.
“There’s no script. They scrapped the deal.”
“Why?” Gerard asked, shocked, “They wouldn’t stop calling for months.”
“I know but they said you’re just not that hot of a commodity right now.”
“His loss I guess,” Gerry said, slightly annoyed, “Let’s get back on the phone with Disney and Warner Brothers. See if we can get those superhero movies back on.”
“I already called. No one is interested right now.”
“I see,” Gerry said as he stared out across the hot, orange, sand that stretched out for miles.
“I’m sorry, man. I’ll try to get something cooking but you need to handle your end. This losing streak isn’t doing us any favors.”
“Noted. I gotta go, D. I got training to finish.”
Gerard ended the call without waiting for a reply. He continued to stare at the empty waste of sand before delivering a stiff kick to the featureless head of the training. He had to do something big.
I stand at a great crossroads in my career. I realize that. My arrogance would’ve blinded me to something like this in my younger years. Recently I’ve been trying to be more self-aware. I face choices of which direction my career will go. I can continue my fall from grace, becoming a shell of myself where people tell me “You used to be good”. Or I can grab the proverbial bull by its horns and launch myself back to the top of the mountain. Either choice will be decided by my own two hands.
Yes, I’m talking about Havoc you fucking dorks. My one last shot at revenge for the biggest screw job in Action Wrestling history. That’s what this is about. Gerard Angelo comes back to reclaim the prize that was stolen from him in the main event of the biggest wrestling show in history. It’s not about Carter Shaw going back-to-back or whatever faux underdog story Lissie Hope tries to sell you. It’s not about Dionysus finally taking that leap forward or Odin trying to reclaim his ancient glory.
This is about a story that started over a year ago when Jill threw me out of Havoc. It’s going to come full circle, in the same arena I was robbed. I win Havoc. I go to Evolution. I take the World title from Jill Park and rub it into Tortellini’s sour face. That is what has to happen. I have to make it happen. Havoc is my last chance to stop this downward spiral. I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not going to sit back and take whatever morsel Torture decides to throw to you like a dog while he and Jill Park sit at the table and get fat. No, I’m going to kick the door in and pull up a chair to the table and interrupt their romantic candlelight gorging, take the big piece of chicken off their plate, and stare them in the eye while my teeth tear flesh and sinew from the bone. I’m going to take what is mine and slap seven shades of shit out of thirty or so morons in my way and win Havoc.
Tony Angelo sat in his office with the door closed, staring out the massive windows that looked out over the Bay Area. The man looked gaunt as if he was withering away by the minute. His suits barely fit him now, the articles of clothing looking like they could fall from his bones with little movement. Most people chalked it up to simple stress. An upcoming merger of two massive tech companies combined with a child due in mere weeks could have a profound effect on any man.
Tony was glad for those excuses. It stopped people from asking too many questions. At least the ones he couldn’t answer. This situation was supposed to be resolved by now. This entire thing wasn’t supposed to be happening. He knew that. It was only going to be a quick fix but Doctor Winthrope got too greedy. He wanted more funding but offered little to nothing in return. Even now the doctor refused to answer his phone.
Tony dug two fingers into the collar of his shirt and pulled at it as sweat dripped down his face. Even with the A/C cranked it felt like he would burst into flames at any moment. Why wouldn’t the Doctor answer? He knew he wasn’t because Tony wasn’t ready. Hell, he wasn’t even Tony.
The thing with Tony’s face raised a gaunt hand and lifted up the smartphone off the desk to call again when he caught a look at his reflection. Sullen eyes and a staved face stared back, his once lustrous black hair thin and streaked with grey. His hand ached as he unlocked it, feeling his thin skin crack open pressing the screen. The thing watched as his call was sent to voicemail. In a rage, the creature snarled and slammed a fist down on the desk and watched as his hand broke apart in a supernova of blood and decaying flesh. He stared at the remnants of his hand, little pieces still plopping down onto the desk. The creature broke down sobbing, even if each sob sent rivers of pain throughout his body.
I guess I should say something about the aforementioned morons, huh? Why don’t we start off with the person who is number one? Tatiana look at you finally gaining some relevance here after months on end of bitching and moaning about your spot. I didn’t think the self-proclaimed “best rassler” would have to whine their way into a title shot. And you were so close, right? So close to finally being able to say I told you so. You could taste it, couldn’t you TJ? And it was torn away at the very last second. Now imagine having that title and defeating all comers only to have it stolen from you. There’s a line here for revenge and you need to get to the back of it, granny. I’ve seen and heard the things you say about me, TJ. I just don’t acknowledge them because you couldn’t lace my fucking boots on your best day. The reason I’m a top-tier star isn’t because of politicking, it’s because I fucking earned my spot with blood and sweat. If you were worth your weight in salt you’d have already achieved this instead of crying about it until they just want you to shut the fuck up. You think shit should be handed to you because you wrestle like it’s 1876. I’m sick of this “better than you” attitude you got because you learned how to wrestle in some stuffy basement in Canada while some old has-been got his rocks off rubbing up against teens. You don’t need a title shot, you need a therapist.
But TJ’s entitled ass doesn’t hold a candle to Lissie Hope. Hi Lissie. I put you in the beginning so your narcissistic ass doesn’t need to fast forward to hear about yourself. I wonder what self-righteous bullshit you’re gonna spew this time around. Possibly something about you being this massive underdog despite the fact you’re one title away from having held every title in the company. You can’t play that woe-is-me nonsense anymore, Lissie. You became a dynasty. You’re fucking Alabama now. Even if it was by jumping down to the B show and completely stealing their opportunities. I’m sure you’re gonna say you’re winning Havoc to make some super “girl power” main event at Evolution between you and Jillybean. Please God, no. I’d rather subscribe to your OnlyFans and look at pictures of your asshole than listen to you pretend to be a feminist for a month. You can talk about being the Women’s champ but this is about the big gold belt that makes the World go round. The last thing we need is you turning the main event of Evolution into another Lissie Hope melodrama because you need everyone’s attention on you at all times or it’s the end of the fucking world. Stick to playing sorority flag football for Twitter clout. This is my Havoc to win. Let that hit you like a camera to the back of the head.
Downfall you beady-eyed fuck. I know you’re just sitting there in the dark, sensually rubbing the hook of the crowbar against your pasty skin. I still owe you a receipt for ruining my Wrestler of the Year goals. I couldn’t think of a better way than tossing you out of the ring personally and making sure you keep social distancing from the World title. Or is it actually this time you don't care because you’re revitalizing the Hardcore division? You realized you couldn’t hang in the open ocean with the rest of us apex predators so you jumped to a small pond, a muck puddle in this case, so you could call yourself the king of it. Easy to be the best in a division populated by the likes of Robbie Baby Dick and that greasy fuck Scala. You romanticizing this garbage wrestling that became antiquated when the nineties ended is just a fucking sad attempt to keep this image that you’re far superior to everyone at anything. You had to turn to the lowest form of the sport to keep from drowning. They may chant that you’re going to kill whoever you face now but this whole “Angry Danny” thing you’re doing stems from the fact you sobbed at night from mean tweets. You were winning World titles and setting records. Now you’re nothing more than a shell of yourself, resorting to using a crowbar on guys who learned how to wrestle on trampolines. You’re pathetic.
Good ol’ Corey Black is in this match. That’s no shock, right? Bro’s always gotta be in the title mix, no matter what. Even if he’s more of a nostalgia act these days. CB always gonna get that pop despite his endeavors having been less than in recent history. You can point to the Tag titles and the Hardcore title but one is held teaming up with a seven-foot behemoth and the other is a division where bums in the business find a home. It’s like a free spot on a bingo card. You lost a step, your grace. CCP ain’t here this year so what’s your excuse going to be when you fail this time? Them new boots too slippery? The light got in your eyes? I wanna toss you out myself. This might be the only time I get my hands on you since all my challenges fell on deaf ears. I plan on personally sending you back on another excursion so you can beat up dorks in the Indies.
I didn’t forget about you either, Odin, you big fucking Stegosaurus. You’ll always have a special place in my ADub legacy. You were the first name brand whose ass I whooped here. You remember when I knocked your has-been ass out in that hardcore match? You might not since you were busy talking to your hands and playing footsie with Adele. Since then you were treading water here, fighting dudes like Kyrie King and Kano. You needed your buddy CB to lift you out of the looming obscurity and form the Has-Been Bros. Stretch that career out a little longer so they can’t bury you softly, brother. Do you think after all that you’re going to Evolution? You got a better chance of raw-dogging Rihanna. You ain’t going home empty handed though. You gonna be able to tell everyone at the shuffleboard table how you got slapped upside the head by Gerard Angelo, the winner of Havoc.
You still mad at me Dionysus? Will we chuckle about that one day on Twitter and then you can compliment me on my torso length or something? If it’s any consolation, you did push me the hardest, Dion. When you’re serious, though. The question is will that determined, focused, Dionysus show up with a chip on his shoulder? Or is that dude who likes to throw one-liners and make niche jokes gonna be the one stepping up to me only to get the red slapped out of your beard? If you think you’re winning Havoc then Downfall hit you too fucking hard with that crowbar. Remember, you’re not that guy, pal.
I’m starting to understand why everyone can’t fucking stand you, Carter. You’ve been running your mouth for a bit that the only reason I rose to prominence was your absence. Check the fucking tape, Shaw. I pinned your fucking ass in the number-one contenders match and sent you home to lick your wounds. I bet you got grand plans to win Havoc again. Here’s a reality check for you. No one wants to watch Carter Shaw shit his fucking pants for a second consecutive year. You got all this momentum though, winning Battlebowl, getting to come in last. Coming in the favorite just like your hometown Bruins, right? You can call me a Florida Panther, Saint, ‘cause you about to blow a 3-1 lead. Park’s head isn’t yours to mount on your wall, it’s mine to impale on a spike.
We even got more representation from the B show as well. Hi Serenity and Teo. You both look so cute with your little cosplay titles, running around like you’re real wrestlers like us on Clash. I’m sure this is the part where Serenity shows me a belt she won in some backwater fed I’ve never heard of and expects me to take her seriously. Teo is probably getting ready to read off his Cruiserweight title history like it matters. Being the best Cruiserweight is like being the best team in the AFC South. You might make the playoffs but you’re gonna get sent to Cancun by Mahomes. Serenity, focus on your Cruiserweight title. You just get a new boo and automatically start looking for another? Greedy ass. Teo focus on your little tag belts and whatever it is you do with Jensen. Leave the big belt for the big guys on the big show.
You got the rest of the field out here sitting with those heavy underdog odds that you look at when you only got ten dollars and a dream to your name. Max Daemon’s gonna tell us that this time he’s taking this shit seriously, unlike all those other times he was gonna take this shit seriously. This is the same guy who got beat by a washed Connor McGregor, need I say more? FPV, buddy, you stole a win from me and we’re gonna settle up soon. I know you wanna win this and get your little revenge on Jillybean for her exposing your bitch made ankle. Like I said before, take a fucking number. And I got number one.
James Freedom looks like a conservative politician with questionable ties to human trafficking. The fact he’s holding the US title that I made famous makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe John Cedrone can save us if he’s not too busy giving Freedom a verbal hand job. You got all that money, John, and you can’t buy yourself a backbone. You don't have the cajones to carry ADub into EVO SZN. Jaice Wilds and Lazaro Vicente are in here too? Great more dorks I have to throw out of the ring. Both dudes making less of an impact on the B show than Cousin Harper. At least Vicente is handsome. Wilds looks like getting beaten with a baseball bat would be an improvement.
Ellie Austin is mad cute but she’s more worried about boys opening her Snapchats and what color prom dress she wants. You keep focusing on that, baby because you ain’t gonna have to worry bout main eventing the big show. Then there’s this guy The Sitcom. He looks like he tells everyone he’s allergic to broccoli. You out here looking like Kevin Malone but you ain’t even half as funny. It’s gonna be funny when I toss you out of Havoc and we won’t even need a laugh track.
Alister McKissick and Marcus Collins. Y’all teaming up made as much of an impact as Dillion Brooks in the first round. Alister, I’m sending you back to the CBS division. Collins, I’m sending you back to whatever dumpster you’ve been sleeping behind. Aoi Takahashi, I don’t think anyone knows much about. What I do know is if she gets in my way I’m gonna toss her ass into the third row. Doc Holiday strapped himself with some gold and now he’s looking for some more? Slow your roll, pal. The only reason you got that title is that our resident co-dictator needs to make sure he’s still getting smooches from his pet champion. You ain’t the one to stop me.
Winthrope watched his phone as he let the latest call go to voicemail. He pushed the phone further away from him on his messy desk and lifted up his snifter, taking a sip of the Brandy in it. He knew what was happening with his creation. He had woken him up too soon. The cellular structure was compromised when that happened. There was nothing he could do for it at this point. He swirled the brown liquor in the glass as he stared down into it.
He thought he would’ve felt something when the time came. He felt more surprised at his lack of compassion than anything. Maybe that would come when he met his maker. What was the punishment for trying to play God? Winthrope took another sip of the brandy, relishing that he could feel the burn.
He was doing what he was doing for the good of mankind he told himself for not the first time. His work at the potential to end disease, end deformities, and even end death. In the future, he would be looked at with the same reverence as Einstein and Wilmut, not be looked at like a half-cocked Doctor Frankenstein.
He just needed a little more time. The doctor got up from his desk and exited his office, heading into his facility. He walked down past tables littered with beakers and hastily scribbled notes to the pressurized seal door. Winthrope scanned his retina and the computer voice greeted him by name as the door popped open. He shuffled inside and walked down past the rows of containment tanks until he stopped in front of one at the end. Winthrope took another sip of his drink as he stared into the plexiglass cylinder. A man floated in the greenish-blue liquid like the day he was born, half his face covered by a breathing apparatus. Tubes and wires were stuck into his skin, some pumping nutrients and sedatives into his bloodstream, making the man look like a twisted amalgamation of flesh and machine. There was no mistaking who it was though. Winthrope put a hand on the glass.
“You’ll be out of here soon, my old friend. Just hang in there, Tony.”
I got a date with destiny. This is my Havoc to win. You see all of the pieces fitting in together perfectly. I was screwed in Los Angeles and I get my chance for redemption in the very same building. Evolution is being held in New Jersey, the state I was born in. You all can try and say it’s New York but I know the truth. And I’ll be damned if I’m letting anyone take that main event spot from the hometown hero. I’ll go through all of the obstacles and perform my labors like I’m Hercules.
This isn’t just about revenge. It’s righting a wrong. The World title is my belt and I’m coming back to claim my empire. I don’t care if I gotta go through former champs, hungry newbies, or some self-proclaimed legends. I’ll walk through seven stages of hell to get my title back.
Because I know the juice is worth the squeeze.
Jill Park and Torture made this personal. Now I don’t care if I have to tear down what Tort created brick by brick until I get my vengeance.
An eye for an eye, Jill. You took everything from me. Now I'm going to take everything from you.
I will win Havoc. I will main event Evolution. I will win the World title back.
That’s what you call a Hollywood Ending.