Post by ππ’π₯ππ¬ πππππ on Apr 15, 2020 11:47:36 GMT -5
We open to Corey Black. He's standing alone in his kitchen, seemingly disjointed and scatterbrained.
"Two hundred and forty five. I'm going to do it. Sunday the 19th will be the day I tie Ryan Lockhart's longest reigning championship streak this company - nay, this entire group has ever seen. Monday the 20th.. two forty six.
And who is my opponent on this, the most important day in Action Wrestling championship history?
The Papa John's Pizza Man."
Corey looks down and sighs.
"I'm not going to paint this marinara and cheese clad goofus to be anything more than he is. He's the one person on this roster that loves something so much, so entirely encompassing that his whole life is centered around it. He's a faithful, kind hearted soul that would do anything for Papa John's pizza.
Even turn his back on cereal."
Corey looks up toward the camera and smiles.
"A drunken buffoon touts the breakfast food for over two years as the be-all end-all of nutrition. And I get it man, cereal fucking rules. I was right there with you. Your commitment now meant nothing and your allegiance turned to a branded pizza. An okay at best takeout style pie that is nowhere even on the radar of anyone's top five.
I digress, all it took was a little brainwash to switch you from cereal to Papa Johns. An advertisement bomb set off in your brain and suddenly you crave low-tier slices instead of high end Wheaties. I'm not here to laugh and play games, man, your life is as tragic as it gets and you're out here playing it off like it's the drunken stupor of a man disconnected from his own reality. This isn't funny.
It's two forty six, Jack.
I'm going to dunk you on your dome so hard you wake up the Blue Bunny Ice Cream Man.
Then you can fuck back off to CruiserClash and try not to let your precious vanilla melt in the summer heat before you get it home from the store.
That's what your future holds, TPJPM. I'm not going to try to fix you or tell you I see what you can be. I don't fucking care. All I care about is a warm body in that ring that I can destroy because believe me, you're far too gone. Hot Shot Wayne Austin - I could have made him great. You're a lost soul and may as well chalk it up to being forever someone else's Frankenstein Monster. That's all ya are man, a lab creation pulled from a disjointed man that had an abnormal affliction for cereal.
The names I have vanquished reads like a who's who of this company. Teo Blaze, Odin Balfore, Graham Baker, Zombie McMorris, James Nightingale - all fell by my hand. But you, Pizza Man. You're different than them all.
You are.. a pizza man. A constructed entity for one purpose. Burnt crust, not enough sauce, stringy cheese, subpar toppings and literally no seasoning.
This is the big time, you're facing off with the King of All Wrestlers, a point I have proven time and time again. As the men fall to their knees, they are reminded that their one and only King sits on the throne of Hardcore as your longest reigning champion. I consume victories like you consume pizza, only I will never have a full belly. My hunger for competition vastly overshadows your hunger for pepperoni and mushroom.
Can you give me what I want? I can get all the 'zza vouchers in the world from you but can you give me competition?
You are able to cast aside that which you have always believed through electric therapy and manipulation.
But is your stitched together psyche enough to click and realize the predicament you now find yourself in?
I know the perfect recipe for ruling over an entire group of people, I am the creator and curator of the ingredients. Better ingredients, if you will. It takes courage, longevity, skill and passion. The will to succeed by any means.
You, Pizza Man, know nothing of actual losses. You lost your entire world. You lost the shining bright spot in your eye and it was filled for you by pure evil. You're not fighting the good fight anymore. Your life is inconsequential not only to those who created you and continue to use you as a platform for hate, but me as well - I care not if I turn your neck into crumbly Parmesan cheese after I overcook the Burning Hammer.
I don't care if I send you back to CruiserClash or the garbage can.
When this is all said and done, the charred remains of your brain will be scrambled like eggs. The best breakfast, scrambled eggs with cheese, a nice bowl of cereal and a tall glass of orange juice. I am the King of All Breakfast.
Hold the fucking onions."
A timer goes off, Corey looks back into his oven where a nice pizza is bubbling over with decadent delight. He opens up his oven and retrieves his next meal. It is packed high with more pepperoni than even The Papa himself could slice.
"I liked you, man, back before all this. I'd tune in just to watch what the hell you'd do next. Look at this wacky dude out here feeding people Fruity Pebbles, what a gas! It's not fucking funny now, Pizza Man. It's time to chin up and show the world what you can do, I'm not the type to roll over and let shit go. You know the type. I ain't it, I'm as serious as a heart attack, motherfucker. Man Made God.
I'm coming for yourblood marinara."
Corey reaches into his drawer and pulls out a pizza cutter, aggressively slicing up his pie and casting aside his utensil. With his bare hands Corey grans a slice and consumes it, wiping away the grease from his lip.
"Two hundred and forty five. I'm going to do it. Sunday the 19th will be the day I tie Ryan Lockhart's longest reigning championship streak this company - nay, this entire group has ever seen. Monday the 20th.. two forty six.
And who is my opponent on this, the most important day in Action Wrestling championship history?
The Papa John's Pizza Man."
Corey looks down and sighs.
"I'm not going to paint this marinara and cheese clad goofus to be anything more than he is. He's the one person on this roster that loves something so much, so entirely encompassing that his whole life is centered around it. He's a faithful, kind hearted soul that would do anything for Papa John's pizza.
Even turn his back on cereal."
Corey looks up toward the camera and smiles.
"A drunken buffoon touts the breakfast food for over two years as the be-all end-all of nutrition. And I get it man, cereal fucking rules. I was right there with you. Your commitment now meant nothing and your allegiance turned to a branded pizza. An okay at best takeout style pie that is nowhere even on the radar of anyone's top five.
I digress, all it took was a little brainwash to switch you from cereal to Papa Johns. An advertisement bomb set off in your brain and suddenly you crave low-tier slices instead of high end Wheaties. I'm not here to laugh and play games, man, your life is as tragic as it gets and you're out here playing it off like it's the drunken stupor of a man disconnected from his own reality. This isn't funny.
It's two forty six, Jack.
I'm going to dunk you on your dome so hard you wake up the Blue Bunny Ice Cream Man.
Then you can fuck back off to CruiserClash and try not to let your precious vanilla melt in the summer heat before you get it home from the store.
That's what your future holds, TPJPM. I'm not going to try to fix you or tell you I see what you can be. I don't fucking care. All I care about is a warm body in that ring that I can destroy because believe me, you're far too gone. Hot Shot Wayne Austin - I could have made him great. You're a lost soul and may as well chalk it up to being forever someone else's Frankenstein Monster. That's all ya are man, a lab creation pulled from a disjointed man that had an abnormal affliction for cereal.
The names I have vanquished reads like a who's who of this company. Teo Blaze, Odin Balfore, Graham Baker, Zombie McMorris, James Nightingale - all fell by my hand. But you, Pizza Man. You're different than them all.
You are.. a pizza man. A constructed entity for one purpose. Burnt crust, not enough sauce, stringy cheese, subpar toppings and literally no seasoning.
This is the big time, you're facing off with the King of All Wrestlers, a point I have proven time and time again. As the men fall to their knees, they are reminded that their one and only King sits on the throne of Hardcore as your longest reigning champion. I consume victories like you consume pizza, only I will never have a full belly. My hunger for competition vastly overshadows your hunger for pepperoni and mushroom.
Can you give me what I want? I can get all the 'zza vouchers in the world from you but can you give me competition?
You are able to cast aside that which you have always believed through electric therapy and manipulation.
But is your stitched together psyche enough to click and realize the predicament you now find yourself in?
I know the perfect recipe for ruling over an entire group of people, I am the creator and curator of the ingredients. Better ingredients, if you will. It takes courage, longevity, skill and passion. The will to succeed by any means.
You, Pizza Man, know nothing of actual losses. You lost your entire world. You lost the shining bright spot in your eye and it was filled for you by pure evil. You're not fighting the good fight anymore. Your life is inconsequential not only to those who created you and continue to use you as a platform for hate, but me as well - I care not if I turn your neck into crumbly Parmesan cheese after I overcook the Burning Hammer.
I don't care if I send you back to CruiserClash or the garbage can.
When this is all said and done, the charred remains of your brain will be scrambled like eggs. The best breakfast, scrambled eggs with cheese, a nice bowl of cereal and a tall glass of orange juice. I am the King of All Breakfast.
Hold the fucking onions."
A timer goes off, Corey looks back into his oven where a nice pizza is bubbling over with decadent delight. He opens up his oven and retrieves his next meal. It is packed high with more pepperoni than even The Papa himself could slice.
"I liked you, man, back before all this. I'd tune in just to watch what the hell you'd do next. Look at this wacky dude out here feeding people Fruity Pebbles, what a gas! It's not fucking funny now, Pizza Man. It's time to chin up and show the world what you can do, I'm not the type to roll over and let shit go. You know the type. I ain't it, I'm as serious as a heart attack, motherfucker. Man Made God.
I'm coming for your
Corey reaches into his drawer and pulls out a pizza cutter, aggressively slicing up his pie and casting aside his utensil. With his bare hands Corey grans a slice and consumes it, wiping away the grease from his lip.