The Culture VI: The Crushing Shadow of Better Men
Nov 9, 2023 16:00:28 GMT -5
Gerard Angelo likes this
Post by Odin Balfore on Nov 9, 2023 16:00:28 GMT -5
The Culture VI: The Crushing Shadow of Better Men
Turmoil Second Round
Gerard Angelo vs. Odin Balfore
(2500)
_______________________________
Of Fame and War
Doc Holiday came in ill-prepared. That Circle K mixed tape unspooled real fast. The digital makeup of those ones and zeros, the pixelated fabrication of his snow-bunny trapped veneer was ground down to ground zero. A travesty of miscalculated events. That was not war, that was victimhood that Odin Balfore knew how to bestow upon the loathsome better than anyone else. What did Holiday get for all that slippin’ and lackin' except for the cheese-wiz hands of Sitcom. He probably smells like a urinal at a Phillies game. Jay Price will swoop in for confirmation before fucking back off to the hat factory. Scoop Callahan with the dirt be like:
“Jay Price, does Sitcom in fact smell like a urinal at a Phillies / Mets game on a hot August night with no ventilation and an asparagus chaser?”
And Jay Price be like:
“ In fact, not only does he but being the piss cono-saurus among us, he smells exactly like the fifth urinal on the main concourse of section one-thirty-seven after the Phillies beat the bitch brakes off the Mets in an astonishing 102 to negative fuck ya mother beat down, where the only thing I have to do is see how many beers I can drink before the pitch clock hits zero.”
“Riveting sports to piss analysis. You heard it here, folks.”
Remember, Holiday, to wash your hands and ass. Odin Balfore told you that you had some suspect paperwork and that you were gonna get hard-checked and your shit did not pass. Consider the Ragnarok from Ghana to Botswana to be the reparations for the fact that you’re a melanated geek who only heard stories of the streets, fantasizing about war and violence and death. To the presumption that 1-8-7 was going to cap off a body until you beheld that body shrug off the best you could do, and yes, THAT effort was the best you could do. It was at that point you knew everything you had was obsolete and that Doc Holiday was Perpetrating a perpetrator.
After all, who the fuck is Shaka Zulu to Jullius Ceasar but just another crop-husking heathen for the war machine; exactly.
You should have prepared adequately. You merely prepared for the fictional glories and not the grim realities. Victims do not prepare for, they prepare for an affected affliction with the knowledge that they will never be the same again.
Gerard Angelo looking on, confused as fuck right now being like:
“Who the hell is Scoops Callahan? How did Jay Price beat me out for piss-consuarus-rex; I had a costume and everything. I don’t understand the Shaka Zulu reference. Botswana, is that like a Sea-Doo?”
Angelo, stick to your lame and tired tripe. This match is out of your hands. This contest is no longer a contest. You are the fourth, fifth, maybe even sixth best at whatever it is you think you’re doing. Action Wrestling has a bedrock of sand made up of guys like you - another continuation of pretty boy-safe picks just like Holiday. That ALL-IN case lookin real good. Feels really good in your hands. Makes you feel like a big man on this shoddy kindergarten playground. Further still, just like Holiday, you wander off the fuckin map where there be monsters, madmen and Odin Balfore operating at a level that can one-shot the entire company. There are six years of guys better than you fumbling the fucking ball because way back when, guys like you got fucking murked, humbled, castrated, and c-c-c-apulted into the fucking sun.
And sure, Odin can hear your cunt mouth now:
“It’s not six years ago. It’s not 2002. This is right now.”
And you’re still a punk ass bitch that's gonna get molly whomped and fucking handled. You don’t want war, you want fame and in this industry, that's fucking worse. Guys like you are a fucking walking monkey's paw of bad decisions, trying to mask the pain with false bravado. You get what you want, sure, but the cost is too great.
If you got this far, you’ve realized the comedy of your errors. Moreover, you’ve realized that you’re in too deep, the penalty is too great and there is nothing in your puttering cerebral cortex of fallacies that can pull you from the fire.
Fame, like war, only has one rule. The strong do what they can and the weak endure what they must.
Endure, you pathetic bitch. Maybe you’ll live to see the sunrise. However, that amber glow that you see is just your career being fucking melted by a guy you think is stuck in 2002.
Which shows how ignorant you are.
And how easily you will be beaten.
_________________________
The Crushing Shadow of Better Men
We come upon Odin sitting in a room with just enough photons to downgrade from dim to dull, even dank. A Shallow breath of electromagnetic radiation casting hushed illumination upon a square box on an end table within Odin's study as he listens to Whiskey soaked blues. We fixate on that plastic, mat black box that has card stocks sticking out of it.
“A roll-a-dex of better men.” Odin starts. “An analog analogy. An antiquated reminder for you, Angelo, that I can call any number at random, even a mash-up on telephonic jibberish and still arrive at a destiny that would give me more of a challenge than what you present yourself to be. Don’t look at me, Angelo. Look at the box. Feast your optical visionaries on any name that you wish and know that you cannot hold a candle to them. It’s okay. You can read the names.
Joey Flash.
Johnny Fly.
Howard Black.
Wade Moor.
Robert Cairo.
You can read more if you like.
Level One.
ICE Beckman.
Steve Orbit.
Steven Singh.
I could continue but you get the point.”
We can feel Odin expose a toothy flash.
“You can flip back to the ‘A’ section and you won’t find Angelo, Gerard. Each of those cards are heavy, though. That's the crushing shadow of better men that you feel at your fingertips. You thought mocking me in 2002 was a feather in your cap on Clash last week; like this is a gift already wrapped up for you. In reality, you could not survive Action Wrestling 2018. You would be CBS Champion at best and TFK’s fifth wheel at worst.”
Odin begins a slow, pronounced, and sarcastic clap.
“Such a magnanimous and riveting career that would have been. Getting trounced by ZMAC in the TV title race as he calls you a scrub with a Ricky and Morty Meme as he refused to try as that would only acknowledge your personhood.
However, this is 2023 and the lack of definable, palpable talent only means that I must chase this migraine with a whiskey Sour and Tramadol in order for me to better handle the dysfunctional and dyslexic lexicon that you call a quip, a stinger, and even worse - fucking shoot. Bah, Garbage! Unfortunately, I can't sit here and malign you to the ends of the Earth as I wish to because you do hold that ALL-IN briefcase and you were a world champion. My point is, in the absence of these better men, you exist as the slinking filth - and not even the first at that to try and point at me with your whole chest and proclaim a weak-level dominance.
I am here right now to be that humbling dissatisfaction to disrupt and crumble your life. I am well aware that if you won Turmoil, none of us would ever hear the fucking end it. It would be that five A.M steam whistle that tells the town that it’s time to get up. I can’t have that. I thought maybe all of you would level off and settle in and we would resemble something that we used to. Clearly, that is not the case. So, now, I’m going to be that owl in the darkness, screeching in the middle of the night, as you come out of the safety of your cabin, firing wildly into the night. As you miss everything including Gawd and baby Jesus, and JESUS, be a fucking rock for your lost son as I systematically trounce him on his wastoid skull so that the world may see his shallow husk of wanna champion get humble and brought to heel by the very same person that survived all the shadows that torment him now. These names that you’ve heard about - read about and names that you may not even know at all gnaw away like rats on your subconscious because now that I have put that thought into your brainstem, it has nowhere to go.
I survived your predecessors. I’ve out-lasted them. I’ve outlived them. I’ve out-shot them and out-schooled them for the very fact that I live for THIS
*Odin gestures to the expansive intangible that is Professional Wrestling*
and they only stick around for what feels like an epoch for what THIS can give to them.
Angelo, you’re just the whimpering wet fart of one too many hot fries. At least Downfall is the systematic embodiment of Autistic Screeching and I haven't even started to dig into you. This is something that you’re not accustomed to and it’s something that all those guys feared and that's this:
When Odin Balfore wants something, he goes after it in full force and there is no stopping him.
You are something I haven't heard someone be called in a long time:
A Batesian clown.
A few will notice that there are names that are not on my list, you’re crushing shadows… because you, like those missing names, try to fucking hard and still miss the fucking point and I’m using them to insult you.
You think you have Turmoil wrapped up in the bag, you short-sighted fool. You managed to snake a legacy away like they were bird eggs and you just unhinged your gaping cunt mouth. You’ve done nothing but seize the void of opportunity. That's the sum of zero factors.
At every test, you have failed, come up short, and otherwise nutted pre-maturely. You falter at the big dance because everyone that's bigger than you or at least, similar to you, you fucking crumble. Your entire personality like all the rest is ridgit and fragile and it simply comes down to which one of you is more malleable than the rest.
At every test, you have failed, come up short, and otherwise nutted pre-maturely. You falter at the big dance because everyone that's bigger than you or at least, similar to you, you fucking crumble. Your entire personality like all the rest is ridgit and fragile and it simply comes down to which one of you is more malleable than the rest.
Face it, Angelo: you’re not a high bar to clear but one that I am easily going to step over to advance to the next round. Maybe I’ll fight Sitcom or Jolle but either one of them would be more entertaining and at the very least, more challenging than you.
So let me get this right; guys like you are going to be wrestler of the year. The Holidays, Angelos, Cedrones, and Downfalls. That's a lot of carbon copies for one tournament and you’ve seen how two of you have already faulted. Tell your half-brained strat for this match.
Am I still too old?
Too dumb?
Am I not God enough?
If you saw my promo from last week and you’re keeping your notes, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought and you’re in even bigger trouble.
We call that the Johnny Rabid Badge of Honour.
That's a dated reference, you wouldn't understand.
However, THAT Austimo is fucking raging. Just like I’m going to make you rage this week before I hit you with Ragnarok and clean sweep the ALL-IN champ with no sweat because I don’t fucking sweat you. I never did. That is the problem with guys like you. You catch a few lucky breaks, that monkey's paw goes your way at first then you want to be crowned KINGS of the nobodies that you profess to beat.
However, bitches gonna bitch. Case in point. All the exhibits that I need is XIII.
Cedrone - Bitch fest.
ALL-IN cash in - Bitch fest.
Jill Park - Bitch fest.
TJ - Bitch fest.
You don’t need redemption. Nah, son. You’re going to be put in your fucking place this week by me and I know that's going to fucking kill you. All these perceived injustices slam you down on your jobber skull. Gerard Angelo aint catchin no breaks. Just hands.
Hmm. fucking delicious.
That little lunch box is all you got in the world and you already felt how useless and inadequate you are without it. You claim that you’re the best to ever do it but that's using some real suspect and trivial data points.
The Odin Balfore that you’ve beaten before is not the one that stands in your way today. This is the one that those shadows named the Se7en Gawd. I am here across from you today because all of those other names could not keep me down. I am better than everyone else in this company and Turmoil is where I’m going to show that. I’m going to put you losers into fucking fits.
You’ll be in that ring, rubbing your lunchbox like a genie lamp, wishing that it was 2002 and I was an alcoholic again. Back when your daddy was getting pegged and Gerard Angelo versions 1.1- 8 million were stains on the fucking sheets that life made him lick up.
I’m going to spike you into the center of the Earth where you can be dragged to fucking hell by whatever mongrel elite bitch decides to take you under his wing because you’ll need all the fucking help you can get.
You may think that you can escape the shadow of better men but not that of the Se7en Gawd. You’re in it for the fucking fame but I’m in it for the culture.
We are not the same.
Our differences are vast and that could not be any more apparent. You can go on wishing that this was 2002, that you had a chance at this and if I was a weaker man, I would be right there with you. However, I’m not. This is 2023. In 2023, Odin Balfore will rise as the wrestler of the year. When I’m done with you this week I’mma bury you in that fucking suitcase you trod around with -
Just know that its more than you fucking deserve.
Bodybags on deck.