Post by marcel on Dec 5, 2020 14:15:14 GMT -5
Dumb fucking bastard thought it was a good to idea to charge in as soon as the bell rang. Jab caught him on the button and knocked him on his ass. Pressure put him on his back. And three more punches put him out. A light night's work, all things considered.
Nine seconds in a cage in Paramaribo were all it took to put a name on the map. And with newfound viral fame came the unlocking of more doors than a boy from Nieuw Amsterdam ever thought existed. A passport, a green card, and a couple flights later, and Marcel Vogel found himself cramped inside the tiny, sublet office space of Clint Kaminski, an agent who did not let his uninspiring 1.5 star rating on Yelp affect his passion for the business.*
*That business of course being 'ripping off aspiring athletes'.
"Look, I get it," Clint began, his voice flat and unexpressive, betraying a lingering nervousness, as if he were a high school student giving a presentation. "And I know you and everyone else is tired of hearing it at this point, but these are unprecedented times. Normally, sure, people see something like what you did and we could leverage that into a three fight contract with Bellator at bare minimum, but they aren't opening their wallets right now. Between you and me, I think this pandemic might have done them in."
"They're doing a show every single week," Marcel responded, staring daggers through his hired representation.
"Yeah okay, that might be true, but if Bellator holds an event and no one's around to see it because it's fucking Bellator, did it actually happen?"
"Yes."
"My point is, we don't need Bellator. You going there and dummying whatever past-their-prime heavyweights they throw at you isn't gonna do much for your career anyway. Yes, their standards are exceedingly low, and yes, the fact that not even they have shown interest would be concerning under normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances and we have to acknowledge that instead of panicking."
"Who the fuck says I'm panicking?" Marcel pushed back in his chair, running back first into the wall of the tiny office before standing up. "If you can't get me anything though, I'm out of here."
"Wait!" Clint exclaimed, stopping Marcel in his tracks in the doorframe. "Who said I wasn't able to get you anything?"
"You got three minutes, man."
"Okay, okay! So I know you have your heart set on staying in MMA, but man let me tell you that industry is not making money right now. The UFC is yeah, but that's because Dana White is a bald rage monster with mob ties and kickbacks from Donald Trump and like it or not, the UFC is not going to sign some 3-0 guy from Africa because of one sick knockout."
"I'm from Suriname."
"Yeah, Africa."
"Suriname's in fucking South America."
"It is?" Clint's eyes grew wide with confusion. Marcel nodded.
"Well, anyway, point still stands. Dana White ain't coming through this door any time soon so we have to branch out of this sport if you want to get known and get paid. And I think I have just the opportunity in mind, but you have to be open to it. Don't just brush it off because it isn't exactly what you want."
"I'm listening."
"Okay, so I know this promotion that's putting together a little world cup tournament. One night only, single-elimination type shit. Winner gets the championship, prestige, maybe even a guaranteed contract, who knows? Point is, it's a big dub that we can leverage into something big somewhere else. We just gotta follow the plan."
"So what's the catch? Is this like, boxing or something?"
"No, the plan is this: you are going to become a professional wrestler."
Marcel cocked his head.
A beat.
Another.
A third.
Marcel turned and walked out of the office.
"Fuck that carny shit, man!"
Pushing out of his seat, Clint chased after his agitated client.
"That carny shit will pay the bills man! It'll put you on the map on this continent. But fine, I can throw a fucking rock in this neighborhood and catch the attention of like six Jamaicans who'll take the spot no questions asked."
His client stopped, and slowly turned to face him.
"Fuck it man, fine. You better be fuckin' right though."
"When have I ever led you astray?"
Gentlemen and gentlemen, nice to meet you. My name is Clint Kaminski, and I'm here today to speak on the behalf of the "Nieuw Amsterdam Nightmare," Mister Marcel Vogel. He knows just as well as I do how much this industry is predicated on talking. On the art of the promo, on hyping one's self up to not just sell oneself as a threat, but to sell the event they're fighting on. To sell the fight itself. And while I can talk all day about what makes my client a freak of nature, about what sets him apart, about what should make him the betting favorite, I think there's one major thing that makes him stand out from the other seven who will see their hopes and machinations dashed in Toronto.
Again, in this industry, the fighters sell the fight. Where Marcel comes from however, it's vice versa. The fights sell the fighters. At the end of the end of the day, the only thing that truly matters is what you do when the bell rings and it's just you and the guy across from you, struggling towards a victory only one of you can obtain. Spirited performances garner respect and admiration, but a wise man said it best: moral victories are for minor league coaches, and one look at Marcel can tell you he's Major.
And can you say the same for anyone else involved in this tournament? This lovely bunch of men plucked out of their home countries, gassed up as if they're actual contenders and not just the other guys set to fill out the card while my client beats skulls in on his way to the ultimate victory? Is Keynan Isara major?
A major league shitshow, maybe. The only man in this tournament with prior experience in this promotion and the tape is about as mid and uninspiring as the rest of his shtick. The big bad Samoan wrestler fad went extinct in the mid-aughts, and Keynan wrestles like it, touting his toughness and striking acumen in an era of pro-wrestling where every chucklefuck fifty pounds lighter than him calls themselves strong-style because they worked one match in Japan and almost caught a broken jaw from one of the vets. Let it be known that being the hand-picked champion of a guy with an alleged deep knowledge of the business isn't an inspiring sign when it exposes just how out of touch they are in the first place. Keynan Isara's better off sucking my client's dick from the back because that's the closest he'll ever come to tasting greatness.
At least he ain't Nio though. You'd at least recognize Keynan Isara if he passed you in the street, but Canada's own? Looks like high school offensive lineman who was just too small to play in college and now coaches rising knights to stay close to his dream. It's fitting that a country so utterly irrelevant on the world stage would throw out the only vanilla midget taller than six feet to represent them. I just hope he can take the time out of his busy schedule burning first nations peoples' lobster cages to even make the trek to Toronto in the first place.
The Habs suck, Rene Levesque is in Hell, and you're lucky you're inevitably going to get eliminated before my client gets his hands on you.
The home country hero can keep his head high on one thing though, at least he isn't the biggest joke in the tournament. Nah, that dubious honor belongs to Whale Helmet, both figuratively and literally. I won't even humor the obvious counter-argument of "but he's huge!" You're right, the big dork is seven feet tall and almost five hundred pounds, so we all know how it's gonna go. He's gonna lumber his way to the ring to the goddamn wide-Putin walking song and his size and strength aren't gonna mean much when literally everyone in the tournament is able to run circles around him until they knock him on his ass like King Hippo.
When you get beached like your namesake, I hope you fucking die too.
And while we're on the subject of one face-obscured weirdo from the UK, let's talk about the other one: Fortune. Actually, let's not. Because it seems England thought it would be a good idea to throw out an undersized 'grappler' in a tournament filled to the brim with certified hosses. Go for your exchanges all you want, Masky, they ain't saving you from getting ragdolled for ten minutes until the lights go out. Better hope your mask is on tight, lest you get literally thrown out of it.
Speaking of undersized dorks, though, how fortunate am I to see a prior statement I made on the wrestling industry proven right so quickly. Miguel Guerrero is the exact kinda guy I talked about; calling himself strong style presumably after one match in Japan. He kinda looks like he did get his jaw broke by one of the vets though. And now he thinks he can throw them 'bows with the best of them but he can't escape one simple fact: he's small. Rinky dink ass two hundred pounds, what do you think them strikes are gonna do against the behemoth you got in round one? If you make it past him, what do you think it's gonna do against Marcel? It starts with n and ends with -othing motherfucker, you should've waited for the junior heavyweight world cup. Maybe there your ceiling wouldn't be "getting molested by a greased up Turkish bear".
Speaking of, hey Denir, isn't oil wrestling kinda sus? Or did Erdogan ban homoerotic subtext around the same time he put a contract out on Enes Kanter's life? There ain't gonna be no grease when you get done smothering Guerrero, and Marcel ain't some glorified barbell for you to get your reps in, so what's your gameplan, man? Think about it, then throw it the fuck away because it's going out the window the second Marcel catches you in the jaw. Repeatedly. Until you drop to the mat and no amount of struggling's gonna keep you from getting eliminated. Nothing personal, big man, just business.
But nothing I say about any of these men matter unless we make it past Nostroza. Which, spoiler alert, yeah that's fuckin' happening. The Forgotten Beast gets forgotten for a reason, and that's because when you ask the average fuckin person to point out Romania on a map, they point at fuckin Italy. So take your happy ass back to the fuckin Sanitarium, big boy, because the era of the mentally unstable giants is fucking over. Marcel ain't mad, he ain't ill, what he is is a goddamn consummate professional who shows up, does his fuckin' job and goes home.
Instability and unpredictability look great for the scouting report, but with all the shit swirling in your head, are you gonna make heads or tails of the book on Marcel? Not likely, especially given your more neurotypical competition won't either. Because I can say it right now: Marcel Vogel is a one-dimensional athlete. And it won't matter. You can scout for it all you want.
He's Mariano Rivera. He's Alex Ovechkin on the powerplay. He does one thing, everyone knows it's coming, and you can't fucking stop it anyway.
So if you think we're gonna sweat some whackjob who won't even know it's coming, you're out of your goddamn mind.
That's it.
Game over.
GG.
NO RE.
Nine seconds in a cage in Paramaribo were all it took to put a name on the map. And with newfound viral fame came the unlocking of more doors than a boy from Nieuw Amsterdam ever thought existed. A passport, a green card, and a couple flights later, and Marcel Vogel found himself cramped inside the tiny, sublet office space of Clint Kaminski, an agent who did not let his uninspiring 1.5 star rating on Yelp affect his passion for the business.*
*That business of course being 'ripping off aspiring athletes'.
"Look, I get it," Clint began, his voice flat and unexpressive, betraying a lingering nervousness, as if he were a high school student giving a presentation. "And I know you and everyone else is tired of hearing it at this point, but these are unprecedented times. Normally, sure, people see something like what you did and we could leverage that into a three fight contract with Bellator at bare minimum, but they aren't opening their wallets right now. Between you and me, I think this pandemic might have done them in."
"They're doing a show every single week," Marcel responded, staring daggers through his hired representation.
"Yeah okay, that might be true, but if Bellator holds an event and no one's around to see it because it's fucking Bellator, did it actually happen?"
"Yes."
"My point is, we don't need Bellator. You going there and dummying whatever past-their-prime heavyweights they throw at you isn't gonna do much for your career anyway. Yes, their standards are exceedingly low, and yes, the fact that not even they have shown interest would be concerning under normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances and we have to acknowledge that instead of panicking."
"Who the fuck says I'm panicking?" Marcel pushed back in his chair, running back first into the wall of the tiny office before standing up. "If you can't get me anything though, I'm out of here."
"Wait!" Clint exclaimed, stopping Marcel in his tracks in the doorframe. "Who said I wasn't able to get you anything?"
"You got three minutes, man."
"Okay, okay! So I know you have your heart set on staying in MMA, but man let me tell you that industry is not making money right now. The UFC is yeah, but that's because Dana White is a bald rage monster with mob ties and kickbacks from Donald Trump and like it or not, the UFC is not going to sign some 3-0 guy from Africa because of one sick knockout."
"I'm from Suriname."
"Yeah, Africa."
"Suriname's in fucking South America."
"It is?" Clint's eyes grew wide with confusion. Marcel nodded.
"Well, anyway, point still stands. Dana White ain't coming through this door any time soon so we have to branch out of this sport if you want to get known and get paid. And I think I have just the opportunity in mind, but you have to be open to it. Don't just brush it off because it isn't exactly what you want."
"I'm listening."
"Okay, so I know this promotion that's putting together a little world cup tournament. One night only, single-elimination type shit. Winner gets the championship, prestige, maybe even a guaranteed contract, who knows? Point is, it's a big dub that we can leverage into something big somewhere else. We just gotta follow the plan."
"So what's the catch? Is this like, boxing or something?"
"No, the plan is this: you are going to become a professional wrestler."
Marcel cocked his head.
A beat.
Another.
A third.
Marcel turned and walked out of the office.
"Fuck that carny shit, man!"
Pushing out of his seat, Clint chased after his agitated client.
"That carny shit will pay the bills man! It'll put you on the map on this continent. But fine, I can throw a fucking rock in this neighborhood and catch the attention of like six Jamaicans who'll take the spot no questions asked."
His client stopped, and slowly turned to face him.
"Fuck it man, fine. You better be fuckin' right though."
"When have I ever led you astray?"
Gentlemen and gentlemen, nice to meet you. My name is Clint Kaminski, and I'm here today to speak on the behalf of the "Nieuw Amsterdam Nightmare," Mister Marcel Vogel. He knows just as well as I do how much this industry is predicated on talking. On the art of the promo, on hyping one's self up to not just sell oneself as a threat, but to sell the event they're fighting on. To sell the fight itself. And while I can talk all day about what makes my client a freak of nature, about what sets him apart, about what should make him the betting favorite, I think there's one major thing that makes him stand out from the other seven who will see their hopes and machinations dashed in Toronto.
Again, in this industry, the fighters sell the fight. Where Marcel comes from however, it's vice versa. The fights sell the fighters. At the end of the end of the day, the only thing that truly matters is what you do when the bell rings and it's just you and the guy across from you, struggling towards a victory only one of you can obtain. Spirited performances garner respect and admiration, but a wise man said it best: moral victories are for minor league coaches, and one look at Marcel can tell you he's Major.
And can you say the same for anyone else involved in this tournament? This lovely bunch of men plucked out of their home countries, gassed up as if they're actual contenders and not just the other guys set to fill out the card while my client beats skulls in on his way to the ultimate victory? Is Keynan Isara major?
A major league shitshow, maybe. The only man in this tournament with prior experience in this promotion and the tape is about as mid and uninspiring as the rest of his shtick. The big bad Samoan wrestler fad went extinct in the mid-aughts, and Keynan wrestles like it, touting his toughness and striking acumen in an era of pro-wrestling where every chucklefuck fifty pounds lighter than him calls themselves strong-style because they worked one match in Japan and almost caught a broken jaw from one of the vets. Let it be known that being the hand-picked champion of a guy with an alleged deep knowledge of the business isn't an inspiring sign when it exposes just how out of touch they are in the first place. Keynan Isara's better off sucking my client's dick from the back because that's the closest he'll ever come to tasting greatness.
At least he ain't Nio though. You'd at least recognize Keynan Isara if he passed you in the street, but Canada's own? Looks like high school offensive lineman who was just too small to play in college and now coaches rising knights to stay close to his dream. It's fitting that a country so utterly irrelevant on the world stage would throw out the only vanilla midget taller than six feet to represent them. I just hope he can take the time out of his busy schedule burning first nations peoples' lobster cages to even make the trek to Toronto in the first place.
The Habs suck, Rene Levesque is in Hell, and you're lucky you're inevitably going to get eliminated before my client gets his hands on you.
The home country hero can keep his head high on one thing though, at least he isn't the biggest joke in the tournament. Nah, that dubious honor belongs to Whale Helmet, both figuratively and literally. I won't even humor the obvious counter-argument of "but he's huge!" You're right, the big dork is seven feet tall and almost five hundred pounds, so we all know how it's gonna go. He's gonna lumber his way to the ring to the goddamn wide-Putin walking song and his size and strength aren't gonna mean much when literally everyone in the tournament is able to run circles around him until they knock him on his ass like King Hippo.
When you get beached like your namesake, I hope you fucking die too.
And while we're on the subject of one face-obscured weirdo from the UK, let's talk about the other one: Fortune. Actually, let's not. Because it seems England thought it would be a good idea to throw out an undersized 'grappler' in a tournament filled to the brim with certified hosses. Go for your exchanges all you want, Masky, they ain't saving you from getting ragdolled for ten minutes until the lights go out. Better hope your mask is on tight, lest you get literally thrown out of it.
Speaking of undersized dorks, though, how fortunate am I to see a prior statement I made on the wrestling industry proven right so quickly. Miguel Guerrero is the exact kinda guy I talked about; calling himself strong style presumably after one match in Japan. He kinda looks like he did get his jaw broke by one of the vets though. And now he thinks he can throw them 'bows with the best of them but he can't escape one simple fact: he's small. Rinky dink ass two hundred pounds, what do you think them strikes are gonna do against the behemoth you got in round one? If you make it past him, what do you think it's gonna do against Marcel? It starts with n and ends with -othing motherfucker, you should've waited for the junior heavyweight world cup. Maybe there your ceiling wouldn't be "getting molested by a greased up Turkish bear".
Speaking of, hey Denir, isn't oil wrestling kinda sus? Or did Erdogan ban homoerotic subtext around the same time he put a contract out on Enes Kanter's life? There ain't gonna be no grease when you get done smothering Guerrero, and Marcel ain't some glorified barbell for you to get your reps in, so what's your gameplan, man? Think about it, then throw it the fuck away because it's going out the window the second Marcel catches you in the jaw. Repeatedly. Until you drop to the mat and no amount of struggling's gonna keep you from getting eliminated. Nothing personal, big man, just business.
But nothing I say about any of these men matter unless we make it past Nostroza. Which, spoiler alert, yeah that's fuckin' happening. The Forgotten Beast gets forgotten for a reason, and that's because when you ask the average fuckin person to point out Romania on a map, they point at fuckin Italy. So take your happy ass back to the fuckin Sanitarium, big boy, because the era of the mentally unstable giants is fucking over. Marcel ain't mad, he ain't ill, what he is is a goddamn consummate professional who shows up, does his fuckin' job and goes home.
Instability and unpredictability look great for the scouting report, but with all the shit swirling in your head, are you gonna make heads or tails of the book on Marcel? Not likely, especially given your more neurotypical competition won't either. Because I can say it right now: Marcel Vogel is a one-dimensional athlete. And it won't matter. You can scout for it all you want.
He's Mariano Rivera. He's Alex Ovechkin on the powerplay. He does one thing, everyone knows it's coming, and you can't fucking stop it anyway.
So if you think we're gonna sweat some whackjob who won't even know it's coming, you're out of your goddamn mind.
That's it.
Game over.
GG.
NO RE.