Post by Jessie Lee on Nov 19, 2023 14:16:11 GMT -5
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
I know I should be trying to preface this with some sort of relatable story that's supposed to draw the eyes of the stupidly uninitiated in an attempt to hype up this match where the "Big Bad" Doc Holiday breaks away from Tailor Made For Greatness; where he gets his freedom and grows to be the professional wrestling ICON he always thought himself to be. To be the world champion that Action Wrestling NEEDS.
I'm SUPPOSED to do that.....
But I won't.
'Cause you don't deserve that kinda treatment before I tear the world out from underneath your delusional little feet. Oh no. I'm not going to try to make this anything more than what it ACTUALLY is. I won't be giving you any half-hearted flippant puns for nicknames nor will I try to inflate and distort the reality of your dime a dozen existence that began the moment you arrogantly signed the death warrant at the beginning of the year. Hell, I'm not even going to feign the faintest notion of respect as there was NEVER anything for me to respect and I highly doubt there ever will be.
So I guess that doesn't give me shit to talk about, does it?
Guess I have to do what I do best an' just talk straight from the heart.
"Are you FINALLY done with them or what?"
Shifting her gaze from the remnants of the flavorless dirty bean water that yet remained in the bottom of the cup to that of her brother Jack that sat across the table, Jessie couldn't help but roll her eyes. For the four months that Tailor Made For Greatness had been a thing the dope had pretty much quit speaking to her during the last three. Well, except for things that were in relation to the siblings little gym they had set up; something in which her brother had used as an excuse to lure her into a one on one over coffee.
Fucking weirdo.
Fucking weirdo.
"Done with who?" she responded absently as she returned her gaze back to the liquid contents of the cup she held.
Undeterred, the middle Lee child pressed on.
"Listen," he began after taking a sip of his own coffee "I know you're beyond sick of this shit an' so am I."
"So go back to not talking 'bout it."
"Jess," Jack said with a sigh "just listen. Last week that Doc fella made it pretty clear he was out and I think it'd be the smart thing to cut an' run too. I don't know nearly as much 'bout the history of Action Wrestling as you do, but I do know that that King fella has ALWAYS been bad news and that the sooner ya get away from him the better."
With a light but absent motion, the youngest Lee sibling gently swirled the coffee within it's container.
"Jack," she began with a hint of submissiveness in her voice "I know you don't really understand basic things like loyalty beyond that of a needle but-"
"Jess..." he interject in a hurt tone "that was uncalled for...."
Shooting her brother a harsh look, Jessie continued; glossing over his objection with minimal effort.
"BUT I gave them my word I wouldn't rag on this deal an' I'm not about it by entertaining the idea of turning traitor like that worthless sod."
Falling silent, each sibling seemed lost within their own thoughts. Jack wondering if there would ever be a day when he and his little sister could ever speak on relatively good terms. Jessie wondering whether or not she was truly doing the right thing; whether there was a "right thing" at all in the situation. For several long moments an apprehensive silence lingered between the two siblings; neither wanting to break first and speak to the other. That is until the unmistakable tune of a cell phone cut through the awkwardness like a freshly sharpened blade through butter
"Gotta go." Jessie mumbled before finishing the remaining coffee as she simultaneously reached for the phone she had left laying upon the top of the table fifteen minutes ago; when their little lunch date began.
"Jess," Jack began with a pleading tone as he grabbed her by the wrist; causing her to give him a sharp look "just think about it. REALLY think 'bout what's going on and how you fit into things, yeah? Promise me you'll at least do that much."
"I gotta go, Jack." she repeated firmly as she wrenched her wrist free from his grasp and plucked her phone up off of the black grating of the patio table. With one last look to her older brother, Jessie rose from her chair and marched away; leaving the check to him as she the call of duty.
"'Ello?"
Doc Holiday.
You are the single most uninteresting individual twat to EVER step foot into any ring; Mixed Martial Arts, boxing, professional wrestling or otherwise. Since day one you've had that smug attitude that screamed that you thought you were better than everyone else; that you were already at the peak. Yet, the first moment you were TRULY tested in that aspect some oversized zombie in a lizard mask tore the Television strap from your fingers and you didn't even look back when you RAN from that division. C'mon Doc, let's not bother trying to sugarcoat things; you RAN like a BITCH. You can try to land that critical strike ya thought you landed last week, but at least I fuckin' TRIED. I didn't instantly run the fuck away like you did with Draugr nor did I let that fat fuck Sitcom get away with backstage bullshit when he tried to step to me that way. Can't say the same 'bout you; you let Sitcom PUNKED your ass out for several weeks and you did FUCK ALL about it.
There wasn't any revenge from you.
There was no ATTEMPT at ANYTHING in retribution.
Instead, you got it in your head that surviving a couple of matches against Downfall was the BEST thing ever; that you were really taking him to his limit when he was just clowning your delusional ass to prolong that Hardcore strap reign he eventually ducked out on. You started thinking that comin' close to a win against a guy that was a win in of itself. However, close only counts with hand grenades an' horseshoes. The sad reality is that you were doin' nothing but play acting the part of what a prepubescent teenage boy thinks is a cool so-called "Alpha Male" is when there's already an ocean of fourth-rate Andrew Tate wannabes floating around in this business like a bloody fucking fungus.
You have boat loads of money.
Fast cars and fancy suits.
Talent and athletic prowess that'll let you thrive in any fight outside of Action Wrestling.
Congratulations!
You meet the minimum requirements of being a professional wrestler in twenty twenty-three and there ain't shit that marks you as you as special; a MUST-HAVE talent that other promotions are foaming at the mouth to poach. No, you're just another delusional limp dicked spider fucker that lives under the false impression that just 'cause ya know a little bit of MMA it makes ya a force to be reckoned with; a bonafide badass in a world of pussies and soy boy cucks. Just another arrogant chode with a Jesus complex that made the dumbest decision of his career when he started thinkin' that the BIGGEST opportunity he'll ever have was holding him back; RUNNING like a bitch from the reality that he just isn't good enough to stand next to GREATNESS.
You are the single most uninteresting individual twat to EVER step foot into any ring; Mixed Martial Arts, boxing, professional wrestling or otherwise. Since day one you've had that smug attitude that screamed that you thought you were better than everyone else; that you were already at the peak. Yet, the first moment you were TRULY tested in that aspect some oversized zombie in a lizard mask tore the Television strap from your fingers and you didn't even look back when you RAN from that division. C'mon Doc, let's not bother trying to sugarcoat things; you RAN like a BITCH. You can try to land that critical strike ya thought you landed last week, but at least I fuckin' TRIED. I didn't instantly run the fuck away like you did with Draugr nor did I let that fat fuck Sitcom get away with backstage bullshit when he tried to step to me that way. Can't say the same 'bout you; you let Sitcom PUNKED your ass out for several weeks and you did FUCK ALL about it.
There wasn't any revenge from you.
There was no ATTEMPT at ANYTHING in retribution.
Instead, you got it in your head that surviving a couple of matches against Downfall was the BEST thing ever; that you were really taking him to his limit when he was just clowning your delusional ass to prolong that Hardcore strap reign he eventually ducked out on. You started thinking that comin' close to a win against a guy that was a win in of itself. However, close only counts with hand grenades an' horseshoes. The sad reality is that you were doin' nothing but play acting the part of what a prepubescent teenage boy thinks is a cool so-called "Alpha Male" is when there's already an ocean of fourth-rate Andrew Tate wannabes floating around in this business like a bloody fucking fungus.
You have boat loads of money.
Fast cars and fancy suits.
Talent and athletic prowess that'll let you thrive in any fight outside of Action Wrestling.
Congratulations!
You meet the minimum requirements of being a professional wrestler in twenty twenty-three and there ain't shit that marks you as you as special; a MUST-HAVE talent that other promotions are foaming at the mouth to poach. No, you're just another delusional limp dicked spider fucker that lives under the false impression that just 'cause ya know a little bit of MMA it makes ya a force to be reckoned with; a bonafide badass in a world of pussies and soy boy cucks. Just another arrogant chode with a Jesus complex that made the dumbest decision of his career when he started thinkin' that the BIGGEST opportunity he'll ever have was holding him back; RUNNING like a bitch from the reality that he just isn't good enough to stand next to GREATNESS.
"Are you listening, Miss Lee?"
Blinking a few times in an attempt to refocus her eyes, Jessie shot a side long glance in Craig's direction. The forty-five minute ride hadn't been enough time for her to properly mull anything over and she had pretty much zoned him out the moment that they had sat her down in the makeup chair.
"Course I am," she replied nonchalantly; lying through her teeth "it'd be stupid of me not to, right?"
Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Craig nodded and a moment later the distinct sound of rustling papers echoed throughout the trailer; a nervous cough soon following as he began again.
"Right. So, this Monday night your goal is to put Mister Holiday back in his place; to remind him that his arrogance is only out weighed by his ignorance. To make him feel a pain sharper than anything he has ever experienced thus far," Craig explained as he he did his best TFK impression "At least, that's what Mister King wants."
"Mmmmhmmm." was all that Jessie responded with as the makeup artist went about her duties.
To be honest, she didn't really much care for what Thaddeus Franklin King wanted out of the rocky situation within Tailor Made For Greatness. For him it was all about setting things right from the embarrassment of having one of his investments reject him so openly and without warning; setting right a deal that had gone wrong. However, the Aussie wasn't quite sure in that regard. In her eyes Doc's sudden decision had been fueled by the frustration of the losing steak he had been on since he had been stupid enough to think he could step to Downfall; a man that personified viciousness. As far as she could tell -as far as she WANTED to tell- all Doc needed was a chance to cool his head; to rethink his brash choice.
Abruptly sitting up completely straight, Jessie shot Craig a side long glance filled with fury.
"Ya don't say." she replied through clenched teeth; the poor makeup artist frowning over Jessie's sudden actions.
"I do say." Craig continued "Mister King wants the mess Mister Holiday has caused to be scrubbed clean with something vicious and violent in a way that only the Dommy Mommy can deliver. He wants you to make a statement by crippling the ungrateful brat so that NOBODY will be to badmouth him or TMFG without SERIOUS consequences."
Moving from the tiny little couch he had been sitting on, Craig stood behind Jessie and placed a hand upon her should; a dangerous snake-like look she had never seen in his eyes reflecting back from the mirror before them.
"Yeah," she replied stiffly "I got it."
"Good," Craig said with a gentle pat; his tone and facial expression returning to what she was familiar with "I'll go let the new director know that you're just about ready to begin filming. Alright?"
"Yeah," she replied tensely "Sounds grand."
"Good." he repeated before turning and leaving the little trailer; the door slamming shut.
That's right, DOC.
I said it.
You're just not good enough to STAND next to GREATNESS and I'm not just talking about Tailor Made as a whole.
I'm talking about ME.
See, this might be a bit of a shock to any of the marks watchin' or listening to this but neither of us were King's first pick to be the tip of the spear in operation TMFG; that was the yellow-bellied skunk named Freedom. You were selected 'cause you already had the look and enough talent needed to fool the ignorant into thinking you were an actual threat to anyone. That's it. There was no other underlying reason. You were just the patsy to hand around with the Television strap like a turd in a punch bowl while the TMFG brand began to take off. Yet, as I've mentioned several times already, you got in your head that you were being held back; that you weren't really getting a chance to shine.
Bitch, I GAVE you the chance time and time again.
In an effort to climb to new heights in my career I stepped aside an allowed you to shine as much as you feasibly could. I wanted to show the world that I could, at the very least, act like a professional and set my feelings aside so that the team could shine as a whole. Yet, in the end all I get is insults from a fucking twerp that never outgrew being a dumb fuckin' ankle biter? I get talked down to by some short-sighted inbred imbecile that I ain't nothin' but a shell of what I was when he ain't nothin' but a fucking shell devoid of ANY fucking substance outside of fifty cent hookers an' a yappy little yes-man parasite?
Bitch.
Please.
Sacramento best have an open spot in the morgue ready 'cause this Monday night a certain ungrateful fucking fuck knuckle ain't leavin' alive. In fact, once I'm down gutting you on live television they're gonna be forced to change the name from the Golden1 Center to the Grisly Dome 'cause I'm going to deliver the grisliest match outside of the bloodiest death match imaginable. 'Cause I've spent too damn long working and grinding to let some third-rate pissant of a Holiday tell me that I ain't shit when I've been nothing short of the BIGGEST moment of his career; of Thaddeus Franklin King's CAREER. "Tailor Made For Greatness" isn't just some witty verbiage that doubles as a witty saying and the name of a stable.
It's ME.
I AM TAILOR MADE FOR GREATNESS.
An' I'm not going to let some whiny waste of human skin like you dictate whether or not I run this shit; 'cause I DO run this shit an' everyone in the back full well UNDERSTANDS that. If they didn't then they wouldn't go as hard as they down when my name is across from theirs on the booking sheet. I'm the fucking threat to EVERY shiny golden strap in this company! I'm the Horrorkore Hottie that even Downfall was too fuckin' AFRAID of when he was flattering his bruised ego with the Hardcore strap! I'm the Big Titty Goth Dommy Mommy that CARRIES divisions, CREATES championship gold, draws interest from other promotions and puts on a fuckin' SHOW whenever she''s on screen!
Most of all, Doc.
I'm the AUSSIE ASSAULT and....
THIS.
IS.
WAR.
I said it.
You're just not good enough to STAND next to GREATNESS and I'm not just talking about Tailor Made as a whole.
I'm talking about ME.
See, this might be a bit of a shock to any of the marks watchin' or listening to this but neither of us were King's first pick to be the tip of the spear in operation TMFG; that was the yellow-bellied skunk named Freedom. You were selected 'cause you already had the look and enough talent needed to fool the ignorant into thinking you were an actual threat to anyone. That's it. There was no other underlying reason. You were just the patsy to hand around with the Television strap like a turd in a punch bowl while the TMFG brand began to take off. Yet, as I've mentioned several times already, you got in your head that you were being held back; that you weren't really getting a chance to shine.
Bitch, I GAVE you the chance time and time again.
In an effort to climb to new heights in my career I stepped aside an allowed you to shine as much as you feasibly could. I wanted to show the world that I could, at the very least, act like a professional and set my feelings aside so that the team could shine as a whole. Yet, in the end all I get is insults from a fucking twerp that never outgrew being a dumb fuckin' ankle biter? I get talked down to by some short-sighted inbred imbecile that I ain't nothin' but a shell of what I was when he ain't nothin' but a fucking shell devoid of ANY fucking substance outside of fifty cent hookers an' a yappy little yes-man parasite?
Bitch.
Please.
Sacramento best have an open spot in the morgue ready 'cause this Monday night a certain ungrateful fucking fuck knuckle ain't leavin' alive. In fact, once I'm down gutting you on live television they're gonna be forced to change the name from the Golden1 Center to the Grisly Dome 'cause I'm going to deliver the grisliest match outside of the bloodiest death match imaginable. 'Cause I've spent too damn long working and grinding to let some third-rate pissant of a Holiday tell me that I ain't shit when I've been nothing short of the BIGGEST moment of his career; of Thaddeus Franklin King's CAREER. "Tailor Made For Greatness" isn't just some witty verbiage that doubles as a witty saying and the name of a stable.
It's ME.
I AM TAILOR MADE FOR GREATNESS.
An' I'm not going to let some whiny waste of human skin like you dictate whether or not I run this shit; 'cause I DO run this shit an' everyone in the back full well UNDERSTANDS that. If they didn't then they wouldn't go as hard as they down when my name is across from theirs on the booking sheet. I'm the fucking threat to EVERY shiny golden strap in this company! I'm the Horrorkore Hottie that even Downfall was too fuckin' AFRAID of when he was flattering his bruised ego with the Hardcore strap! I'm the Big Titty Goth Dommy Mommy that CARRIES divisions, CREATES championship gold, draws interest from other promotions and puts on a fuckin' SHOW whenever she''s on screen!
Most of all, Doc.
I'm the AUSSIE ASSAULT and....
THIS.
IS.
WAR.