Post by Airborne on Dec 17, 2023 5:49:49 GMT -5
(A limousine pulls up in front of the NYC Plaza hotel...out steps Airborne.)
“Crazy, Stupid, Insane. Crazy, Stupid, Insane.” The fans all chanted for me. It was a great moment, fucking priceless…and that’s the problem…it didn’t help me financially at all. Meanwhile helping Johnny, Sitcom came with a big old payday and even a little fun…sorry Doc, it’s just business.
Speaking of business, let’s start this off by saying something that’s going piss people off...for me wrestling is a profession, not an obsession.
(A bellhop directs Airborne to the V.I.P. elevator.)
And fuck you if you even consider looking down on me for doing this for the money.
Spend one damn night on the streets, where your next meal is the least of your worries. These days I must fight for my life for 30 minutes every other week. When I was homeless, I had to fight for my life every single damn second. Fuck, if Sitcom needs my help walking out of Holiday Bash with his US title and Beckman has the cash; my trusty friend, the steel chair and I are more than willing to help. Then again, Doc? Odin? My chair is a free fucking agent, if either of you got the cash, I got the lack of morals.
But of course, I have my own business to deal with at Holiday Bash, defending my Cruiserweight Title against three passionate competitors who all have their own selfish reasons why they want MY title. And let me quickly point out that none of their reasoning for winning is any holier than my greed.
(The bellhop opens the door for Airborne’s suite.)
First, there is Karlie. If anyone can respect a money grab approach it’s this egotistical whore. And when I use the word whore, I mean the bitch is willing to sell whatever you want to buy to get herself one more moment in the spotlight. She’s always in a bad mood when the camera is on her, but she’s even worse when the camera is off her. She loves storming out, makes her look tough and edgy, but if I had to guess, most of the time she storms right back in to make sure they got the shot just how she wanted it. Her passion is a selfish fear of being forgotten.
Second, we got Andre. Dude sold out years ago without even collecting a single penny of compensation on the way out. This guy is so one note, and such a cliche wingman, he could work part time selling coat tail rides. He flirts with heroics like a wounded bird flirts with a glass door. It’s knocked him down repeatedly, but he’s willing to give it another go the moment his bird brain forgot how much it hurt the first time. His passion is doing this just long enough to not look like a quitter.
And finally, we have Mercedes. She’s trying her best to enjoy the old WTF lifestyle, but this winning this thing is starting to become her new addiction. A month ago she didn’t care about her opponent, her reality, her common sense. But now she’s already playing the game; congratulating herself, bragging about her accomplishments, insulting her opponents via facts. Yawn. Nothing is worse than when crazy becomes complacent. Her passion is lost, her best bet is my Infamy 450 knocks her back down to interesting.
All three of them are weak in their originality. Despite for love in a disgusting way. Willing to tarnish themselves via a million loses in the hopes a single hit of glory. Respect is a tool for to the retired, yet all three of these cowards will fill out their simple redirect with emotions best left for the deserved. Fuck even I don't love myself as much as they all love themselves, which the first of my many wins. For I not only embrace my and their's weaknesses, but I encourage them all, for when it comes down to it all, when we're all on our last breath...I know my lungs with find that necessary second wind first.
(Out on the scenic balcony overlooking Central Park.)
But there is one final aspect to this match that has really sparked my love for my profession...something that is written under special skills on my resume...Weapons Allowed. Ladders, Chairs, Tables...boring...tasers, sledgehammers, pepper spray...getting better...but a well hidden steel plate, a conveniently planted "friend" in the crowd, or the unsanctioned use of a AED...now that is Fun with Weapons. And while my opponents are playing old tunes via traditional violence, I will be conducting a whole new theme where head shots never stop ringing and limb joints never stop whining. And the whole damn time I will be happy inside, knowing I'm getting paid to hurt, getting paid to destroy, getting paid for what I do best.
And my background as a skinny white poser who survived as a homeless rat on the streets of Detroit is all the proof I need to prove I know how to use a fucking weapon when someone else is trying to take away the most important thing in my world. I'd refer you to specific examples, but I hate helping out shitty cops.
(Airborne pops open the complementary champagne and props his feet up on the balcony's railing.)
But there is one final aspect to this match that has really sparked my love for my profession...something that is written under special skills on my resume...Weapons Allowed. Ladders, Chairs, Tables...boring...tasers, sledgehammers, pepper spray...getting better...but a well hidden steel plate, a conveniently planted "friend" in the crowd, or the unsanctioned use of a AED...now that is Fun with Weapons. And while my opponents are playing old tunes via traditional violence, I will be conducting a whole new theme where head shots never stop ringing and limb joints never stop whining. And the whole damn time I will be happy inside, knowing I'm getting paid to hurt, getting paid to destroy, getting paid for what I do best.
And my background as a skinny white poser who survived as a homeless rat on the streets of Detroit is all the proof I need to prove I know how to use a fucking weapon when someone else is trying to take away the most important thing in my world. I'd refer you to specific examples, but I hate helping out shitty cops.
(Airborne pops open the complementary champagne and props his feet up on the balcony's railing.)
The streets of Detroit are a War; Action Wrestling is a business. There are refs, rules, cameras, witnesses, EMTs, security; being risky here comes with compassion, congratulations, and most importantly, compensation. Out there, risky behavior is only rewarded with one simple thing…no tomorrow. So, give me all the crazy stunts, stupid ideas and insane moments, as long at the end of the day there’s money in my pockets and a soft mattress to sleep on, I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep this title, and keep this lifestyle…
Not because it’s my passion...but because it’s my Job. And I’m fucking good at My Job!