Post by Quixote Della Torre on Jan 5, 2020 20:16:47 GMT -5
Pyrotechnics erupt and cavort parallel to the window of my Kensington apartment as the clock tolls midnight. London revellers below usher in 2020 with a tuneless rendition of Auld Lang Syne. As I down an amaretto, my other hand cradles my only other companion; my Title belt... but not the one you're expecting.
201 and Fun. A relic from a bygone age. An era when Guillotines decapitated gentlemen and cells of coercion transmuted into jails of juvenile abandon. Nevertheless, it was a spoil I plundered from a land I ruled. I was younger then, weaker even, yet still impenetrable.
With a flick of my wrist and a swift stomp, the belt spins to the floor and crushes under my shoe. Its plating shatters. My fractured reflection amuses me.
Hola Geoffrey Torrance, worthless antique. 201 without the Fun. Kindly crawl back into your DeLorean and return to WCF's jobber recesses circa 2005. Spoilt trust fund kid gone rogue cliché. Your botched #BeachKrew tribute act - who, incidentally, were a parody of an American Pie Frat Boy wet dream - would be wearing thin, if it were ever "phat" in the first place.
Everyone knows I'm no stranger to a little verbose vulgarity. I'm not adverse to a timely meme. One of many differences between us is... that ain't my entire shtick. You have the depth of a baby pool, and even there you'd look infantile and inevitably sink.
"Souperman", you dream that I'm your Lex Luthor. Surely, in your mind, I made a beeline for you in the Rumble, Qui-D-T'ing you through the announce table, out of some notion that you were my biggest threat. My nemesis? Nah, I am the Caesar of the Cruiserweights, the Honcho of Havoc. If you seek a rival a little more on your level, I hear Dean Wolfey is baying for his wheelchair back! Bravo, you ruined his Christmas, scrooge. How does it feel to know your Kryptonite is a Make a Wish kid?
I step over the 201 belt and walk towards my rose wood table. My Cruiserweight strap lies prestigiously atop it.
Four times. Four times. Four times. Four times. I dominated the Havoc Rumble just like I dominate this division. My supremacy has overflown to the point I've been given my own show, CruiserClash, live on CBS. Make no mistake, this Tables Match is a showcase of QDT's virtuosity. A glossy squash.
I don't know D-Day but after my Cruiserweight Havoc Rumble triumph, I saw in his eyes that he knows ME. He unequivocally recognises my greatness. Under his management, I'm certain CruiserClash will sparkle in the superstar production values befitting its Champion. But Donald, where I ask you to spare an expense... the table. I demand the cheapest, trashiest, most rigid piece of crap to hurl that walking vomit through. He's only known undeserved riches; I want him to feel long justified splinters of agonising destitution so his physical surroundings finally match the paucity of his character.
My eyes scan upwards towards my shelves. An elephant statue catches my attention.
Ah yes, elephant in the room. One of many, perhaps. You think I didn't notice the people turning hostile on me? Was it a one-off? A partisan crowd? I'm sure at CruiserClash, they'll overwhelm me with love like they did after my previous Rumble feats in April. What about Jenna? Skulking in the shadows ever since I proposed. Will I get my answer? She's obviously waiting for MY stage, MY CruiserClash, to joyfully confirm our engagement to our millions of fans.
I've been on a journey. Gonna be a father soon. I've evolved. But the Trail has reached its obvious conclusion with QDT starting this new decade where I belong - on top, a pioneer. But, unlike Torrance, I'm not stranded in a lost epoch. I'm TIMELESS. In fact, I'm a damn Fortress; standing tall, keeping out enemies, defending everything that's right, the bedazzling wonder no one can reach.
I walk back and pick up a shard of broken glass from the 201 belt.
Geoff, you're gonna see what I bring to the table.
I hold it up to the camera. This time it reflects the image of Geoffrey... FN... Torrance.
201 and Fun. A relic from a bygone age. An era when Guillotines decapitated gentlemen and cells of coercion transmuted into jails of juvenile abandon. Nevertheless, it was a spoil I plundered from a land I ruled. I was younger then, weaker even, yet still impenetrable.
With a flick of my wrist and a swift stomp, the belt spins to the floor and crushes under my shoe. Its plating shatters. My fractured reflection amuses me.
Hola Geoffrey Torrance, worthless antique. 201 without the Fun. Kindly crawl back into your DeLorean and return to WCF's jobber recesses circa 2005. Spoilt trust fund kid gone rogue cliché. Your botched #BeachKrew tribute act - who, incidentally, were a parody of an American Pie Frat Boy wet dream - would be wearing thin, if it were ever "phat" in the first place.
Everyone knows I'm no stranger to a little verbose vulgarity. I'm not adverse to a timely meme. One of many differences between us is... that ain't my entire shtick. You have the depth of a baby pool, and even there you'd look infantile and inevitably sink.
"Souperman", you dream that I'm your Lex Luthor. Surely, in your mind, I made a beeline for you in the Rumble, Qui-D-T'ing you through the announce table, out of some notion that you were my biggest threat. My nemesis? Nah, I am the Caesar of the Cruiserweights, the Honcho of Havoc. If you seek a rival a little more on your level, I hear Dean Wolfey is baying for his wheelchair back! Bravo, you ruined his Christmas, scrooge. How does it feel to know your Kryptonite is a Make a Wish kid?
I step over the 201 belt and walk towards my rose wood table. My Cruiserweight strap lies prestigiously atop it.
Four times. Four times. Four times. Four times. I dominated the Havoc Rumble just like I dominate this division. My supremacy has overflown to the point I've been given my own show, CruiserClash, live on CBS. Make no mistake, this Tables Match is a showcase of QDT's virtuosity. A glossy squash.
I don't know D-Day but after my Cruiserweight Havoc Rumble triumph, I saw in his eyes that he knows ME. He unequivocally recognises my greatness. Under his management, I'm certain CruiserClash will sparkle in the superstar production values befitting its Champion. But Donald, where I ask you to spare an expense... the table. I demand the cheapest, trashiest, most rigid piece of crap to hurl that walking vomit through. He's only known undeserved riches; I want him to feel long justified splinters of agonising destitution so his physical surroundings finally match the paucity of his character.
My eyes scan upwards towards my shelves. An elephant statue catches my attention.
Ah yes, elephant in the room. One of many, perhaps. You think I didn't notice the people turning hostile on me? Was it a one-off? A partisan crowd? I'm sure at CruiserClash, they'll overwhelm me with love like they did after my previous Rumble feats in April. What about Jenna? Skulking in the shadows ever since I proposed. Will I get my answer? She's obviously waiting for MY stage, MY CruiserClash, to joyfully confirm our engagement to our millions of fans.
I've been on a journey. Gonna be a father soon. I've evolved. But the Trail has reached its obvious conclusion with QDT starting this new decade where I belong - on top, a pioneer. But, unlike Torrance, I'm not stranded in a lost epoch. I'm TIMELESS. In fact, I'm a damn Fortress; standing tall, keeping out enemies, defending everything that's right, the bedazzling wonder no one can reach.
I walk back and pick up a shard of broken glass from the 201 belt.
Geoff, you're gonna see what I bring to the table.
I hold it up to the camera. This time it reflects the image of Geoffrey... FN... Torrance.