Post by Jim Mud on Jan 10, 2021 21:58:09 GMT -5
Mud passes through a back hall in Staples Center, smiling from ear to ear as he walks up to a suited up Philidor rep. He shoves the recently acquired “gift card” towards him and nods his head with pride.
Jim: Looks like Jim Mud is on the up and up. Of course, I knew I’d win Deruty’s little “special match”, but maaaaan did I hit fuckin’ gold!
Rep: Congratulations.
Jim: You’re damn right! You all came to me with expectations, you wanted a fuckin’ monopoly on this shit and guess who just got that much closer to CruiserClash bein’ pinned under the heel of his boot at curbside? THIS FUCKIN’ GUY RIGHT HERE! When I first came to this place, all those motherfuckers in the locker room and allll the fuckin’ spectators in the crowd looked at me as if I was unlikely, but now...I’m inevitable.
Rep: You’re certainly delivering.
Jim: Always do.
Rep: Did I hear that right though? You get a match with anybody under AW contract and you choose Donald Deruty?
Jim: You’re goddamn right.
Rep: For what reason exactly? Couldn’t you have just aimed at Mae or Corey Black and looked for a win over a champion, maybe position yourself for a title opportunity afterwards?
Jim: The minute I saw the reward, I knew there was only one real choice. I signed on with Philidor to be an equal contributor. Unlike the people you see walkin’ these halls every night, I ain’t no fuckin’ cog. Using an opportunity like this on just one dickhead is shortsighted, it’s beggar shit. I want the puppet master himself. I get booked, I stack bodies. I face that puppet master, I get to hurt him and hurt him badly.
Rep: And?
Jim: What happens if I take him out?
Rep: Hmm…
Jim: We fuckin’ STRIKE, that’s what happens!
Rep: What was his reaction to your announcement?
Jim: Not much yet, probably still tryin’ to compute, but the text was blunt. Anybody on the roster. There’s no negotiating it. He dug his own grave and soon enough, I’ll get to bury him in it. For now, he can watch me overwork his medical staff to the point of a nervous breakdown. I’m gonna head to Portland and cull the herd. Keeton..Fortuna..Pettis...Bouchet, all people who are considered some of the best and brightest on this show and in what should be a simple exhibition type match, I’m going to draw blood and I’m going to draw a lot of it. Why? Because I’m a fuckin’ spoiler.
Tell me who is stoppin’ me? J.C. Keeton, the guy who hasn’t pushed the envelope for months now..or is it Fortuna who ain’t good for nothin’ other than roughin’ up an orgy of commies and guys who look like they play for Greg Popovich? Is it the bitch who got here off her husband’s name or a singlet wearin’ Gomer Pyle? None of these motherfuckers have the grit or stench on them to do anything other than fold like a fuckin’ lawn chair when I so much as exhale in their direction.
This is the beginning of the end, the death of normal and digestible. I am not marketable, but with heads hung low and nervousness in their guts, everyone workin’ at AW’s offices will default to me and default to us. With an injured reserve list longer than a Wal-Mart receipt, there just ain’t gonna be any way around it. CruiserClash is goin’ down, Deruty is goin’ down, AW..is goin’ down and it’s gonna be rebuilt in the image that I choose for it. Those same spectators who looked at me as not worth a thing will look up and see Jim Mud’s face plastered across billboards across every city in the country. I ain’t just gonna be everything they say I am..I’m about to be everything..the only thing they ever see again.