Post by Odin Balfore on Nov 18, 2023 23:25:03 GMT -5
The culture VII: Shackles of the Lesser
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The Duty of The Hollywood Betrayal
In the back, the cheers, the parades, the ticker-tape, and inferior flat booty white bitches fell from the sky for Gerard. The high-fives, the laughter, and again, the inferior flat booty white bitches that give head like a chainsaw with lipstick.
All teeth, no breaks. Be havin ya dick lookin like ya went through a meat-GrindR
May Shieky have mercy on the Travis Kelce, bubba.
In the locker room frantic thumb-tapping on IPHONE screens can be heated
“ Odin balfore if this were 2018..”
Like frat boys excited for their first keg stand. That's where the glory was. In the zippy one-liners, hidden behind the terms of service.
Doc Holiday was also there with the koolaide and pumps. Preparing his mouth to accept the graciousness of sweaty flacid meat- preparing for war. TFK over in the corner like Sam Kidsgrove, filming yet another Massamotto snuff film.
George Floyd weeps on the low ( read: in Hell ) like R Kelly on a 60-minute interview
Dudes like Doc n’ Angelo are why Jada still loves Pac.
Disgraceful.
Then again, Gerard IS the Hollywood type. Perhaps the other Will Smith allegations ARE true ( read: Of course, they fucking are, Willard. )
Just another dude who wants to be a pro wrestler without having, needing or wanting to be a pro wrestler.
Kurt Cobain wanted to be a rockstar too.
Heath Ledger wanted to be a movie star.
And OJ a loving husband
However, Kurts brain wanted to be a jackson Pollock on the wall.
Heath’s nose wanted to ski the Columbian powder slopes
And Nicole Simpson had a heavy metal allergy ( Read: OJ didn't do it )
Moreover, we gonna find real pro wrestlers just as we search for the real killer.
Anything short of finishing the cause is to dampen the spirit of Nicole Simpson and to a further extent, Anna Nicole-Smith.
Angelo, we can't have that - or else whos gonna tell the single mom of three to get a Tesla and lower her carbon footprint; you fucking mook.
You represent a shift that even Odnin can't fight against. Time marches forward and all you can do is pray to fucking Scientology God that he gets trampled underfoot.
Here’s to hopin and wishing and going clear you dumb mother fucker.
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Shackles of the Lesser - Lyrics of the Broken Cog
“From Angelo to Cedrone. The broken Cog whines yet again for lubricated satisfaction. A Battle Royal for the plebs, the Shackles of Lesser yet again seek to immobilize me in an effort to control me. All for the prize of number one contenders against Kevin fucking Bishop. Never in my immortal drug-fueled life have I ever pined for anything Kevin Bishop-related except that he would just fuck off and die. Now he has tag belts - oh boy, can't wait to hear Cedrones excuse on how he let Kevin Bishop defeat him for anything greater than getting kicked in the sack.
This is nothing but a prize with a sour taste. There are no winners in this - just Odn Balfore having to carry anyone in this god-forsaken field into a match where Kevin Bishop waxes poetic about brotherhood or summer camp or the time he turned Deathfort into an AirBNB. Seems as though my entire career is just trying to rid some meddling priest.
New Brotherhood, worse than the Old Brotherhood. That's Bishop-nomics for you. Truthfully, I think I’m only interested in this match to see where and how in Bishops skull he gets to improve the Old Brotherhood because - we all know it wasn't that good to start with. The dudes just sitting there selling himself wolf tickets. We’ve heard this before from Bishop and nothing ever comes from it. Kevy B just needs to hang it up for good. It’ll make him a better man for it. Perhaps even the best version of himself.”
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The Infinite Grinding of Timeless Machinations
A thick ‘pop’ as if an axe chopped heavy into oak. The neck of the All-Father cracked as he turned the light on at the entrance to a walk-in closet that had the dimensions of a of a small home. The entire closet was broken up into three sections: shirts, jackets, pants then shoes on the floor. The closet was bright, having LED lighting on the trim. It was white with gold accents that glinted in the eye. Off in the far end, just out of the corner of our eye, we can see a collection of Odin’s wrestling attire.
“I get to look at 2024 as business as usual. Everyone knows that the ‘reset button’ has been worn down like a pencil eraser. That's fine. Reinvention falls to the infinite grinding of timeless machination. When I say that I do it for the culture - I mean that. One that I cultivated that others take for granted. No longer can I concern myself with that. The Italian leather, Armani and Kevlar-lined suits in this closet are worth more than the collective lifetime net worths of the entire roster. This is not an emulation of the past. This is just who I am, The All-Father and everything that comes with it.”
We can look over and see a series of tag team championships around the waist of a mermaid statue as Odin walks further into the room, towards the middle, and looks around.
“And that's the loudest thing that I do.”
Odin thinks to himself, taking his chin into his massive hand as he looks across at his reflection in a mirror.
“ See, none of this will do and that is OK. The reset button has been worm thin as I’m sure at least one of my opponents will seek charge to remind me however with all of this material wealth. From depression to losing status, to contract negotiations - I have managed to build myself up once again as I always have. As I always will. Pretty much though, whoever I eliminate last I have to tag with. That's a dangerous game.
I will betray you. There are no spoilers. It’s just a forgone conclusion. The belts on the mermaid poon should have told you that. I respect none of these people in this match. I would run Cedrone through a meat grinder before I give him any sort of compliment. My soul would leap from my body and beat me to death for such a dishonorable act - of that I am sure. Completely sure.
I could talk about everyone else - as if a living God keeps up on the tabloids of TJ Alexander, Jody Madrox or Noble Martin. It’s not that they are beneath me, its not my fault that I am so far above them in stature, accolades, legacy, and skill that I acknowledge that I have had no reason to keep up with any of them. Seems like a fair trade-off when former world champions care more about running to the back after a match to jump on fucking Twitter.
Paychecks don’t lie. Legacies don’t lie. Alligator shoes and coats made out of Fenrir himself do not lie -”
Odin gestures around the room.
“This is an acquired taste. This is an acquired skill. Like an old suit that's been on the hanger too long, it may take time to re-tailor and break it but it will. I’ll gladly cap off 2023 as tag team champion with some geek that I can’t stand because the old classics never die. All that means is that in ‘24, I’ll become world champion again.
You could say that this is the past. This is behind me. If so then you don’t know what the fuck your talking about. This is me. Right here. Right now. And right now, that's very dangerous for all of you. Just pray that your last and I rocket you to a tag team championship at Turmoil. “