Post by Downfall on Jan 1, 2024 16:27:22 GMT -5
The title belt shines and gleams as it lay on the coffee table, propped up with it's strap wrapped underneath. Faceplates shined to their brightest, proud example of both history and promise of the future. The Action Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship.
How long has it been set up? On one level, who knows? This is a man that prides himself on actually competing on the shows, yet after the high-point that was his run through Turmoil, the actual World Champion, and thus, main character that the fed turns around, has been left off, except for a shitty six-man tag that served no purpose for anyone except to cram "big names" into a main event. He hasn't been booked to do what he actually loves, compete and excel in a one-on-one setting; and on one level, he knows that that's because it's manifestly unfair to pit any one of these feckless children against him one-on-one.
Nonetheless, the title calls to the eye, drinking in the attention, as well as serving as a stern reminder; The man holding it is right in view. This way, the title is an invitation, come and take it. He stands by his word, lives and dies by it. His finish, his final act, is going to be holding this championship proudly until such time as someone takes it out of his hands.
But the problem with taking a title off of Daniel Fehl, is that it just doesn't happen without an act of God, and he doesn't see anyone on this field with one of those in their pocket.
Nonetheless, this is where we're at.
And the duty of a champion means that he needs to maintain visibility on his brand, he needs to speak clearly... and when someone takes potshots at his feet, he needs to step on their fucking neck.
So, here we are today.
His low chuckle sounds from behind the dialed-in shot on the faceplate of the title belt, and the shot pulls upwards to show Downfall, reclining back in a chair with easy, relaxed posture, yet one that drips shallowly contained menace. His eyes pierce the camera but his grin spreads across his face, the venom dripping from his metaphorical fangs already.
Admit it, you missed this.
It's a beautiful morning, the first (or second?) day of a promising new year, and he's sitting in the sunshine in his living space. Behind him, Rumiko can be seen. Not model-perfect, not poised and painted up for the camera, not a manager who comes out blowing kisses to the audience on his arm and co-signing every stupid thing he has to say unlike a Zooey Deschanel or a Miyamoto. Rumiko is a real person, with actual agency, and currently, she looks over her shoulder, similarly disinterested but curious, calling to Danny "Coffee will be on in a moment." She shuffles to a cupboard, hair wrapped in a messy bun. He just smiles, and sits forward, lacing his fingers together.
He nudges the belt, again calling attention to it.
Downfall: I want you to take a look at that, specifically you, Shadowlove.
Dutifully, whichever child conscripted from his dojo to film this does dip the camera down to look at the AW World title belt, then back to Downfall, looking serious, grave.
Downfall: Since December 12th, you've managed to not only fill the Internet Board, the extras on Paramount Plus, and now... this Clash, you've managed to fill a whole twenty minutes of airtime on Monday Night, with your promises to me, with your spiel about being the one that ends my title reign. With how much you hate me. Based, entirely, on nothing, except the gymnastics in your mind that my hitting you with a crowbar was an unfathomably unforgiveable act, you've latched on to this premise that you, somehow, out of the entire, shifting field that makes up this shitty fan-voted Six-Man Hell In A Cell... are The One. And you spoke about me with such length, rhapsodized, in fact, about what you're going to do to me, so I think it's high time that I just came out here and set records straight. So, here goes, my first rebuttal of the new year:
Shadow, you ignorant fucking slut.
No, I actually really do need to address your words, because apparently, according to whichever intern is writing copy, you dropped some ETHER on me this Clash, so let's talk about ether. Everything you said, I truly believe you did giggle mirthfully, thinking you cooked with some gas, but Shadow. Bubby.
The only whiff of natural I'm getting is methane, because everything you committed to film this Monday was absolute, farm-grade manure levels of shit.
I'm going to plea, mercifully, not for me, not for any prospective opponents, that you fucking retire right now and leave AW. That you stop cutting promos, full stop. That you never again waste anyone's fucking time with "responses", with "back and forth" call and response between you and your apparent mail-order Thai bride, that you don't ever put yourself forward as a viable wrestler in this industry again because Shadowlove, and I am going to underline this, you are fucking bad at this.
You seem to conflate the length at which you gabbed at me with really burning me badly, which pains me to say, because Shadow, do you know how many people come at me over length? Do you know how many times this calendar year, I've heard Odin, Max, Dion, etcetera try to pass my words off as trivial because "That's a lotta words too bad I'm not reading an essay hurr durr", how many people just flatout admitted they aren't going to engage me on that level because they don't want to listen through when I spend paragraphs dissecting their entire mindset, thought process and gimmick until they're meaningless? I've had people criticize me over writing novels, snarkin' about "paragraphs" too, Shadow, so on it's face, that isn't a thing, but it's the CONTENT of what you wasted twenty precious minutes of airtime that could have been given to let Jessie Lee versus TJ Alexander be a more competitive match that I take issue with; Because for all of the words you used, you said absolutely fucking nothing.
This fucking sucks, and half of what you said this Monday on Clash I'm actually... a little stymied by. I'm, in all honesty... baffled and frustrated by your choices of wording, because I honestly think you're so fucking brain dead and your word-salad scripting is so asinine that you'll think you're really saying something profound, and you're out here telling me you'll "Blue me in the cow patch".
Again, you are really, really, mind-bogglingly bad at this.
But the real consternation out of this dreck is that a good deal of what you said is so... irritating, that it DOES need a response, because it needs to be addressed. Look at every person who came at me this year for the Hardcore Title, Shadow, I didn't let them talk their shit without giving them a full response, because I don't believe that people should be allowed to walk around AW erroneously believing they're getting one over on me, or filling the air with a narrative about me that's just plain wrong. For starters, let's begin with your briillllliant assessment that I am NOT the best World Champion this company has ever seen, that distinction goes to Ryan Lockhart, dammit!!
Shadow.
Shut the fuck up.
You plaintively, and obsessively dickride Lockhart and Spencer, as is your wont because as I look back on old results and title histories, I see you bumped up against them often, but I never have seen once where you defeated them. In fact, as much as you try to paint yourself as someone that the main event sector feared and respected back in the day... I have not unearthed one single bit of evidence IN ACTION WRESTLING, where it's fucking RELEVANT, that you've left a footprint. The only place in title histories at all that I've seen that you even left a dent is a note that you were a loser in a match for a vacant US title. No title wins, no tournament wins, no top five of Havoc, nothing.
And yet I'm really, truly supposed to care that you mention that you overcame X named US champion (I forget who you even said it was, and the point is, again, underlined, it does not MATTER) in a NON-TITLE match? That means that you got nothing from winning. Good job humble bragging.
And this is the opinion of someone who wants to enter the conversation; More than that this is the gospel of someone who wants to look at what I've done and sneer that I'll never measure up to his beloved nemesis Ryan Lockhart? Shadow, I simply cannot be asked to summon even a little bit of giving a fuck about where I place in the conversation there. I will note, again, that you're conflating; You namedrop Lockhart, you name drop Jill, and you proclaim them the best, simply because you click the link to look at that title history and see they held the belt longest. Those are, in fact, separate criteria.
But I wouldn't expect you to understand the distinction.
Your only view of the World title is of a lustful simp trying to beg people for a crumb of a title shot. In recent history, Shadow, not in UCI 2017 or whenever it is you're constantly referencing, but in the here and now, I've bumped against many such as you, mealy mouthed little slur-worthy pieces of empty, arrogant filth that believe they've ticked enough boxes to get a title shot as if we're just handing them out to anyone with enough punches on a card. Fuck you, in fact.
And that leads me to the biggest problem I have, not just in your abortion of an in-ring promo on Clash, but in every single thing you've said since you "saved me" at Turmoil.
It's all just... trivia.
Meaningless, empty recitals of shit you've done that, again, underlined, bolded and Italicized, WE DO NOT CARE ABOUT. Shadow, if you ever come at me bragging that you won some non-title match against someone who legit, isn't even in this fucking company currently, and that in June 2018 you achieved this benchmark, I am going to fold your shit like a napkin and throw you away myself, you are not getting anything with that dated, bland, who-gives-a-shit nonsense. Accomplish something now, here, win a single match. But no. You have yet to do that, in fact, you foam and rave left and right about AW Hierarchy when you have no been here in a dog's age to see that Hierarchy form. You don't know the first fucking thing ABOUT AW'S Hierarchy. All you do is wax philosophical for the days of yore, about every velveteen wrestler in the back -
A phrase you used, verbatim, on Monday Night Clash, FOUR TIMES, can you maybe trim some of the padding and kill a few darlings on some of this long-winded shit -
And why they feared you.
I don't fear you. I don't pity you.
I don't, in any capacity, even hate you, the way you proclaim you hate me with the intensity of a thousand suns.
I nothing you. You could walk away tomorrow, and please, God, I'm praying to every deity above and below to manifest THAT on my board for 2024; and when you'd left, I'd shrug it off, but I could actually care less to learn any more about why you think you're popular, why you think you're a star, why every velveteen wrestler (? Sidebar? What the actual FUCK does that adjective have to do with anything?) should be worried about you, and how you're fixated on me, specifically. This, and the title shot at Final Chapter you did absolutely zip to earn are the last times I'd ever even address you, barring the possibility that AW Management will stop booking the main event in corny tag matches and just feed you to me mano-a-mano, for me to mangle your limbs like Sid from Toy Story would his sister's Barbies.
And I know your type to a T and I have absolutely no doubt that my rebutting you will excite you. Some vain, attention-seeking inner child that never got an attaboy is going to see me critiquing and tearing your Clash effort down and think we've engaged in warfare, that you have my interest... perhaps, even, delusionally, that you've wormed your way inside my head and are winning a battle of wits; Couldn't be farther from the truth, in fact, you've continually shown that you're about as unarmed in those battles as Palestinian children.
No, engaging in a dialogue with you is not why I did this, nor was it to establish you as a credible threat, the one in all of this Six-Man HIAC that I need to be wary of, the viper in the pit of corn snakes. Fuck no.
But I want, you, specifically, to know that you're walking into this match based on absolutely no merit. Even Dake Ken Junior had at least a shred of credibity built over this year, even if it was a victory over Joey Scala, you've done nothing. But you're going to brag about how you can't help it that you were on the poll, that the AW fans voted you in because you're just oh-so popular and everyone wanted to see you in this match. Again, farthest thing from the truth. The truth is that poll was a rigged game, a dealer with his thumb on the wheel from the start; People see the match stip options first and foremost, and the EXCITEMENT of seeing a Six-Man Hell In A Cell was soooo much! It doesn't matter that over half of the field had absolutely no place in it, and hadn't been established as main event contenders in 2023, people just wanted to see the match!
But you, Shadow.
You, especially, are one of the most glaring examples of why the poll was cheap and pointless, because you have done nothing.
And if you claim that you saved me one more time, it'll be just one more lie I'm going to ram down your fucking gullet when I superkick you, because the tape of Turmoil even shows you really did nothing. True and fair, Gerard Angelo came out to the end of Turmoil wielding his All-In Briefcase, obviously teasing cashing in on me when I had just been through a match. But all you did was show up and stand on a fucking stage with your whore on your arm. And, even if your presence WASN'T a factor, are you going to be the one that claims that I couldn't have fought Gerard off myself? That patently disprovable bullshit takes away quite a bit of my agency, and overblows and overestimates what you're actually physically capable of, Shadow... because that isn't a lot, at all.
And if that's the only single thing you've done, that you think brings you to the dance, and makes you worthy of a World Title Shot in a Six-Man Hell in A Cell, then you're already starting with the assumption that every man in that match is going to be looking to beat your ass as soon as those doors are locked, because that's the most flimsy reasoning of them all.
But I do not, for one second, want you to walk around here, cock of the walk, proclaiming yourself as the Handsome Half-Breed with the most clout to be inserted in this match. You have no clout, you have no fans, you have no popularity, stop trying to make yourself something you're not. Here, I'll do you one better, I'll even FILM a Shadowlove promo to prove my point; Rumiko?
From the background, Rumiko sighs. She isn't a fucking manager, or on-camera valet on Danny's arm, plus, she isn't in hair and makeup, and her hair is unkempt, but he grins at her, and she decides to go along with the bit. Shuffling forward and presenting herself next to Danny's arm, her voice rises into a shrill and grating pitch.
Rumiko: The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed, Downfall, is a man who has tamed the land of the Rising Sun, walked through Mexico, before pinning "Chaos" Marcus McClaren to become the IEW World Heavyweight Champion! The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed, Downfall, is the man who unified the lesser Television and Extreme Championships into one Anarchy Title. You're looking at the last man that was the second-place finisher in the famed Warrior's Pride Match of 2007! The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed is the best wrestler in Action Wrestling Today! (Based purely on these examples we've listed from over fifteen years ago.)
Downfall smiles at her.
Downfall: Thank you, Rumiko.
Rumiko: On a side-bar, does that fucking Stepford Wife bitch of his have any hobbies, or anything in her life to do other than fawning over him and calling him the Handsome Half-Breed every other sentence? Jesus Christ, girl, enrich your life somehow this year, take a class at the Learning Annex.
Downfall: Thaaank you, Rumiko.
Rumiko: Coffee's ready. I'll go back to not being your on-camera anything now, because who would want that?
Downfall: You're the best.
Rumiko laughs to herself a little, then goes back to pouring herself a cup, and Downfall's eyes return to the camera, holding his hands out, palms up flat, shrugging, as if to say, there you have it, I just did your shtick better than you. But then, his face becomes stern again.
Downfall: I didn't quite intend for this to be such a long response, Shadow, but you need to understand... everything you said, everything you committed to putting out there... It cannot go unaddressed. And seeing as how you picked the Clash you knew I wasn't going to be on - That story about Torture being in the building and my leaving the backstage in protest wasn't quite the truth, I was actually doing media and promotion for THIS SHOW THAT I PAY THE BILLS FOR - and you decided to run your mouth about me, at such length, and then to finish it off with a disgusting display of fondling your fucking robot wife on national TV, I needed - Had to, set records straight. So, in summary, don't you ever put something like that on my show again. Keep my name out of your mouth. And if you HAVE anything you want to say to me, Shadow... I'll be on this Clash.
Come find me.
So saying, he picks up the AW World Title belt off the table, lifting the strap and throwing it over his shoulder as he stands. The implication is clear, the challenge hangs in the air. Come find him.
He'll be waiting.
How long has it been set up? On one level, who knows? This is a man that prides himself on actually competing on the shows, yet after the high-point that was his run through Turmoil, the actual World Champion, and thus, main character that the fed turns around, has been left off, except for a shitty six-man tag that served no purpose for anyone except to cram "big names" into a main event. He hasn't been booked to do what he actually loves, compete and excel in a one-on-one setting; and on one level, he knows that that's because it's manifestly unfair to pit any one of these feckless children against him one-on-one.
Nonetheless, the title calls to the eye, drinking in the attention, as well as serving as a stern reminder; The man holding it is right in view. This way, the title is an invitation, come and take it. He stands by his word, lives and dies by it. His finish, his final act, is going to be holding this championship proudly until such time as someone takes it out of his hands.
But the problem with taking a title off of Daniel Fehl, is that it just doesn't happen without an act of God, and he doesn't see anyone on this field with one of those in their pocket.
Nonetheless, this is where we're at.
And the duty of a champion means that he needs to maintain visibility on his brand, he needs to speak clearly... and when someone takes potshots at his feet, he needs to step on their fucking neck.
So, here we are today.
His low chuckle sounds from behind the dialed-in shot on the faceplate of the title belt, and the shot pulls upwards to show Downfall, reclining back in a chair with easy, relaxed posture, yet one that drips shallowly contained menace. His eyes pierce the camera but his grin spreads across his face, the venom dripping from his metaphorical fangs already.
Admit it, you missed this.
It's a beautiful morning, the first (or second?) day of a promising new year, and he's sitting in the sunshine in his living space. Behind him, Rumiko can be seen. Not model-perfect, not poised and painted up for the camera, not a manager who comes out blowing kisses to the audience on his arm and co-signing every stupid thing he has to say unlike a Zooey Deschanel or a Miyamoto. Rumiko is a real person, with actual agency, and currently, she looks over her shoulder, similarly disinterested but curious, calling to Danny "Coffee will be on in a moment." She shuffles to a cupboard, hair wrapped in a messy bun. He just smiles, and sits forward, lacing his fingers together.
He nudges the belt, again calling attention to it.
Downfall: I want you to take a look at that, specifically you, Shadowlove.
Dutifully, whichever child conscripted from his dojo to film this does dip the camera down to look at the AW World title belt, then back to Downfall, looking serious, grave.
Downfall: Since December 12th, you've managed to not only fill the Internet Board, the extras on Paramount Plus, and now... this Clash, you've managed to fill a whole twenty minutes of airtime on Monday Night, with your promises to me, with your spiel about being the one that ends my title reign. With how much you hate me. Based, entirely, on nothing, except the gymnastics in your mind that my hitting you with a crowbar was an unfathomably unforgiveable act, you've latched on to this premise that you, somehow, out of the entire, shifting field that makes up this shitty fan-voted Six-Man Hell In A Cell... are The One. And you spoke about me with such length, rhapsodized, in fact, about what you're going to do to me, so I think it's high time that I just came out here and set records straight. So, here goes, my first rebuttal of the new year:
Shadow, you ignorant fucking slut.
No, I actually really do need to address your words, because apparently, according to whichever intern is writing copy, you dropped some ETHER on me this Clash, so let's talk about ether. Everything you said, I truly believe you did giggle mirthfully, thinking you cooked with some gas, but Shadow. Bubby.
The only whiff of natural I'm getting is methane, because everything you committed to film this Monday was absolute, farm-grade manure levels of shit.
I'm going to plea, mercifully, not for me, not for any prospective opponents, that you fucking retire right now and leave AW. That you stop cutting promos, full stop. That you never again waste anyone's fucking time with "responses", with "back and forth" call and response between you and your apparent mail-order Thai bride, that you don't ever put yourself forward as a viable wrestler in this industry again because Shadowlove, and I am going to underline this, you are fucking bad at this.
You seem to conflate the length at which you gabbed at me with really burning me badly, which pains me to say, because Shadow, do you know how many people come at me over length? Do you know how many times this calendar year, I've heard Odin, Max, Dion, etcetera try to pass my words off as trivial because "That's a lotta words too bad I'm not reading an essay hurr durr", how many people just flatout admitted they aren't going to engage me on that level because they don't want to listen through when I spend paragraphs dissecting their entire mindset, thought process and gimmick until they're meaningless? I've had people criticize me over writing novels, snarkin' about "paragraphs" too, Shadow, so on it's face, that isn't a thing, but it's the CONTENT of what you wasted twenty precious minutes of airtime that could have been given to let Jessie Lee versus TJ Alexander be a more competitive match that I take issue with; Because for all of the words you used, you said absolutely fucking nothing.
This fucking sucks, and half of what you said this Monday on Clash I'm actually... a little stymied by. I'm, in all honesty... baffled and frustrated by your choices of wording, because I honestly think you're so fucking brain dead and your word-salad scripting is so asinine that you'll think you're really saying something profound, and you're out here telling me you'll "Blue me in the cow patch".
Again, you are really, really, mind-bogglingly bad at this.
But the real consternation out of this dreck is that a good deal of what you said is so... irritating, that it DOES need a response, because it needs to be addressed. Look at every person who came at me this year for the Hardcore Title, Shadow, I didn't let them talk their shit without giving them a full response, because I don't believe that people should be allowed to walk around AW erroneously believing they're getting one over on me, or filling the air with a narrative about me that's just plain wrong. For starters, let's begin with your briillllliant assessment that I am NOT the best World Champion this company has ever seen, that distinction goes to Ryan Lockhart, dammit!!
Shadow.
Shut the fuck up.
You plaintively, and obsessively dickride Lockhart and Spencer, as is your wont because as I look back on old results and title histories, I see you bumped up against them often, but I never have seen once where you defeated them. In fact, as much as you try to paint yourself as someone that the main event sector feared and respected back in the day... I have not unearthed one single bit of evidence IN ACTION WRESTLING, where it's fucking RELEVANT, that you've left a footprint. The only place in title histories at all that I've seen that you even left a dent is a note that you were a loser in a match for a vacant US title. No title wins, no tournament wins, no top five of Havoc, nothing.
And yet I'm really, truly supposed to care that you mention that you overcame X named US champion (I forget who you even said it was, and the point is, again, underlined, it does not MATTER) in a NON-TITLE match? That means that you got nothing from winning. Good job humble bragging.
And this is the opinion of someone who wants to enter the conversation; More than that this is the gospel of someone who wants to look at what I've done and sneer that I'll never measure up to his beloved nemesis Ryan Lockhart? Shadow, I simply cannot be asked to summon even a little bit of giving a fuck about where I place in the conversation there. I will note, again, that you're conflating; You namedrop Lockhart, you name drop Jill, and you proclaim them the best, simply because you click the link to look at that title history and see they held the belt longest. Those are, in fact, separate criteria.
But I wouldn't expect you to understand the distinction.
Your only view of the World title is of a lustful simp trying to beg people for a crumb of a title shot. In recent history, Shadow, not in UCI 2017 or whenever it is you're constantly referencing, but in the here and now, I've bumped against many such as you, mealy mouthed little slur-worthy pieces of empty, arrogant filth that believe they've ticked enough boxes to get a title shot as if we're just handing them out to anyone with enough punches on a card. Fuck you, in fact.
And that leads me to the biggest problem I have, not just in your abortion of an in-ring promo on Clash, but in every single thing you've said since you "saved me" at Turmoil.
It's all just... trivia.
Meaningless, empty recitals of shit you've done that, again, underlined, bolded and Italicized, WE DO NOT CARE ABOUT. Shadow, if you ever come at me bragging that you won some non-title match against someone who legit, isn't even in this fucking company currently, and that in June 2018 you achieved this benchmark, I am going to fold your shit like a napkin and throw you away myself, you are not getting anything with that dated, bland, who-gives-a-shit nonsense. Accomplish something now, here, win a single match. But no. You have yet to do that, in fact, you foam and rave left and right about AW Hierarchy when you have no been here in a dog's age to see that Hierarchy form. You don't know the first fucking thing ABOUT AW'S Hierarchy. All you do is wax philosophical for the days of yore, about every velveteen wrestler in the back -
A phrase you used, verbatim, on Monday Night Clash, FOUR TIMES, can you maybe trim some of the padding and kill a few darlings on some of this long-winded shit -
And why they feared you.
I don't fear you. I don't pity you.
I don't, in any capacity, even hate you, the way you proclaim you hate me with the intensity of a thousand suns.
I nothing you. You could walk away tomorrow, and please, God, I'm praying to every deity above and below to manifest THAT on my board for 2024; and when you'd left, I'd shrug it off, but I could actually care less to learn any more about why you think you're popular, why you think you're a star, why every velveteen wrestler (? Sidebar? What the actual FUCK does that adjective have to do with anything?) should be worried about you, and how you're fixated on me, specifically. This, and the title shot at Final Chapter you did absolutely zip to earn are the last times I'd ever even address you, barring the possibility that AW Management will stop booking the main event in corny tag matches and just feed you to me mano-a-mano, for me to mangle your limbs like Sid from Toy Story would his sister's Barbies.
And I know your type to a T and I have absolutely no doubt that my rebutting you will excite you. Some vain, attention-seeking inner child that never got an attaboy is going to see me critiquing and tearing your Clash effort down and think we've engaged in warfare, that you have my interest... perhaps, even, delusionally, that you've wormed your way inside my head and are winning a battle of wits; Couldn't be farther from the truth, in fact, you've continually shown that you're about as unarmed in those battles as Palestinian children.
No, engaging in a dialogue with you is not why I did this, nor was it to establish you as a credible threat, the one in all of this Six-Man HIAC that I need to be wary of, the viper in the pit of corn snakes. Fuck no.
But I want, you, specifically, to know that you're walking into this match based on absolutely no merit. Even Dake Ken Junior had at least a shred of credibity built over this year, even if it was a victory over Joey Scala, you've done nothing. But you're going to brag about how you can't help it that you were on the poll, that the AW fans voted you in because you're just oh-so popular and everyone wanted to see you in this match. Again, farthest thing from the truth. The truth is that poll was a rigged game, a dealer with his thumb on the wheel from the start; People see the match stip options first and foremost, and the EXCITEMENT of seeing a Six-Man Hell In A Cell was soooo much! It doesn't matter that over half of the field had absolutely no place in it, and hadn't been established as main event contenders in 2023, people just wanted to see the match!
But you, Shadow.
You, especially, are one of the most glaring examples of why the poll was cheap and pointless, because you have done nothing.
And if you claim that you saved me one more time, it'll be just one more lie I'm going to ram down your fucking gullet when I superkick you, because the tape of Turmoil even shows you really did nothing. True and fair, Gerard Angelo came out to the end of Turmoil wielding his All-In Briefcase, obviously teasing cashing in on me when I had just been through a match. But all you did was show up and stand on a fucking stage with your whore on your arm. And, even if your presence WASN'T a factor, are you going to be the one that claims that I couldn't have fought Gerard off myself? That patently disprovable bullshit takes away quite a bit of my agency, and overblows and overestimates what you're actually physically capable of, Shadow... because that isn't a lot, at all.
And if that's the only single thing you've done, that you think brings you to the dance, and makes you worthy of a World Title Shot in a Six-Man Hell in A Cell, then you're already starting with the assumption that every man in that match is going to be looking to beat your ass as soon as those doors are locked, because that's the most flimsy reasoning of them all.
But I do not, for one second, want you to walk around here, cock of the walk, proclaiming yourself as the Handsome Half-Breed with the most clout to be inserted in this match. You have no clout, you have no fans, you have no popularity, stop trying to make yourself something you're not. Here, I'll do you one better, I'll even FILM a Shadowlove promo to prove my point; Rumiko?
From the background, Rumiko sighs. She isn't a fucking manager, or on-camera valet on Danny's arm, plus, she isn't in hair and makeup, and her hair is unkempt, but he grins at her, and she decides to go along with the bit. Shuffling forward and presenting herself next to Danny's arm, her voice rises into a shrill and grating pitch.
Rumiko: The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed, Downfall, is a man who has tamed the land of the Rising Sun, walked through Mexico, before pinning "Chaos" Marcus McClaren to become the IEW World Heavyweight Champion! The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed, Downfall, is the man who unified the lesser Television and Extreme Championships into one Anarchy Title. You're looking at the last man that was the second-place finisher in the famed Warrior's Pride Match of 2007! The Handsome Half-Breed, The Beast Unleashed is the best wrestler in Action Wrestling Today! (Based purely on these examples we've listed from over fifteen years ago.)
Downfall smiles at her.
Downfall: Thank you, Rumiko.
Rumiko: On a side-bar, does that fucking Stepford Wife bitch of his have any hobbies, or anything in her life to do other than fawning over him and calling him the Handsome Half-Breed every other sentence? Jesus Christ, girl, enrich your life somehow this year, take a class at the Learning Annex.
Downfall: Thaaank you, Rumiko.
Rumiko: Coffee's ready. I'll go back to not being your on-camera anything now, because who would want that?
Downfall: You're the best.
Rumiko laughs to herself a little, then goes back to pouring herself a cup, and Downfall's eyes return to the camera, holding his hands out, palms up flat, shrugging, as if to say, there you have it, I just did your shtick better than you. But then, his face becomes stern again.
Downfall: I didn't quite intend for this to be such a long response, Shadow, but you need to understand... everything you said, everything you committed to putting out there... It cannot go unaddressed. And seeing as how you picked the Clash you knew I wasn't going to be on - That story about Torture being in the building and my leaving the backstage in protest wasn't quite the truth, I was actually doing media and promotion for THIS SHOW THAT I PAY THE BILLS FOR - and you decided to run your mouth about me, at such length, and then to finish it off with a disgusting display of fondling your fucking robot wife on national TV, I needed - Had to, set records straight. So, in summary, don't you ever put something like that on my show again. Keep my name out of your mouth. And if you HAVE anything you want to say to me, Shadow... I'll be on this Clash.
Come find me.
So saying, he picks up the AW World Title belt off the table, lifting the strap and throwing it over his shoulder as he stands. The implication is clear, the challenge hangs in the air. Come find him.
He'll be waiting.