Post by Abraham on May 1, 2008 10:17:26 GMT -5
The scene opens up poolside at a fancy resort somewhere in Mexico. Immediately the crowd is greeted by the smiling face of a bikini clad Claira Charisma. The resort is busy, with countless tourists sitting idly at the edge of the pool, or relaxing in the pool. The only locals here are the staff that bring towels and serve drinks and food.
“Welcome CPW fans to Mexico! CPW bienvenido ventila a México,” she says excitedly “the superstars of CPW are in Tijuana, getting ready for our annual tribute to our Latino friends, Dia de los Muertos. That means day of the dead for those of you who don't speak Spanish. Anyways let's see who we can find shall we?"
The camera follows Miss Charisma through long the pool through the crowd of people for a few moments before stopping at two figures, wearing nothing but bathing suits and sunglasses. One has a bottle of tequila in his hand that's clearly missing more than just a few shots and seems more interested in the scantly clad, big breasted Latino waitress he's talking to. He is Lee “Iron Head” Abraham. The other is lying down and appears to be asleep. This notion however is obviously incorrect as he notices the camera and Claira before his cohort. He is Iron Head's manager “Mr. B” himself Brett Abraham.
“Well it seems we've found our first two superstars,” says a the perky female interviewer “for those of you unaware, Iron Head has a huge ultimate X match at Dia de los Muertos. The man next to him is his manager, only known as Mr. B, he's...”
“Thank you Claira, I'll take it from here,” interjects Brett, stealing the microphone away from Claira. She opens her mouth to protest, but he just face palms her, shoving her into the pool. Several of the fans gawk at Brett's actions but others just sort of laugh. Brett ignores them all and continues “Ladies and gentlemen, fans of all ages pay attention! My client, Iron Head, is the future of this business. He's only been in this business a year and already he's gone toe to toe with some of the best, leaving blood and bodies in his wake. This Sunday is Dia de los Muertos, a fitting name because on that day the still budding legacy Tony Murdock meets an early end as Iron Head...”
This time it was Brett's turn to get cut off as Lee finally notices the camera and takes action. He whispers something into the ear of the Latino chick he's talking to, takes another drink from the tequila bottle and walks over to his younger brother. Lee places his arm around Brett and pulls the younger Abraham in closely but makes sure the microphone is still close enough to pick up what he says.
“Look at me Brett. Am I really that drunk?”
“No.”
“Do I have some sort of speech impediment?”
“No.”
“Is my name Bill Goldberg, David Batista, or Bobby Lashly?”
“Um..no.”
“Then give me the fucking mic!” Okay so the former elimination champion might have been just a little bit drunk.
The slightly liqueured up pro wrestler steals the microphone from his considerably smaller counterpart and actually pushes Brett back out of the way and steps forward so that the camera is focused mostly on him.
“The past few days I've been seeing promo after promo from my opponents. And each and every time I think one of these idiots can't shove their heads any further up their collective asses they some how defy the odds in ways that would make Cena jealous and prove me wrong.
First I feel I should address the Platinum Player since he seems to be on camera the most. First of all kid I'm addressing you and not Black Mojito because yeah, lets face it, there's no way you're losing to a guy who sounds like he was named after something my sister would order at a bar. I admire your dedication kid, a pro wrestler and a college student. That shit takes a lot of work especially because from what I can tell you have a major that actually requires more than a pulse to complete. I applaud you kid but this ain't some fairy tale nor is it whatever fucking minor league federation you debuted in. Here's whats going to happen kid, consider me a fucking prophet, you're going to go into your first match and kick the shit out of Black Mojito and then you're going to step into the ring with me and I'm going to kick the fucking shit out of you. I'm sorry kid but this is the big leagues here, nobody gives a fuck about you. Plain and simple, now lets move on shall we? I think I feel my buzz starting to die.
Next we have Reggie Starr. Quite possibly the biggest fucking waste of potential in this whole god damned business. You're actually going back and talking shit about how you had it so hard? About how the ghetto made you tough and hard and you're now fighting for all your niggers in the hood or some shit like that? Haven't we already done this song and dance before? Yeah we have, I kicked your sorry ass then and I'll kick it now. Starr I'm going to make it very clear for you. There is not a single person in this whole god forsaken business, much less this company that is even going to pretend like they give a fuck just because your mother was a crack whore and your worthless, piece of shit father was her pimp and dealer. I'll admit I had it easy compared to you. Know what, I'm damn proud of it. Now please for the love of Satan, shut the fuck up before you make my ears bleed. You want to make your people proud, here's an idea. Close your fucking mouth and start training. Just because you can occasionally get lucky and destroy some jobber like Alex Falcon does not make you the savior of your race or whatever the fuck it was you tried to call yourself. Jesus fucking Christ, even my black friends who grew up poor know you're full of shit. But enough about Starr, thinking about the shit Starr's been spewing is making my head hurt from the sheer stupidity of it.
Murdock, you've made quite a name for yourself. Winning the Air Raid and well not much else that anybody gives a fuck about. Oh yeah you also had a rather uneventful reign as elimination champion and you had a money in the bank contract that you completely wasted. Way to live up to your potential, sport. I'm sure your wife and kids must be proud. Oh wait...never mind. You talk about how you've been through hell and back serving in Iraq and all. Guess what motherfucker, so have I. I spent four years in the fucking Marine Core, doing everything I could to stay on the front lines. I've seen seventeen year old boys take fifty caliber slugs to the fucking skull, I saw my best friend get blown up by a grenade to save my life and lives of several of my men. I've been shot, peppered with shrapnel and had artillery fire go off less than 20 feet away from me. Murdock I'm not going to play the part of the angry vet but don't you dare assume you're the only one of us who has ever seen hell. You lost your family, I got fucking disowned by mine and left by my fiancée at the time. You have the gall to say I don't know what I'm fighting for. Well get your head out of your ass you pompous fuck and pay attention. I'm fighting for the glory that should be mine. I'm fighting for fortune, for greatness, for my self. I'm fighting for what this entire fucking country owes me and men like me who have willingly put themselves through hell just so the rest of you idiots could sit back at home all comfortable in the freedom we give you and talk shit about us and about how we shouldn't be over there or even that we deserve to die for killing a bunch of innocent Iraqi's. Fuck you Murdock.
Now on to the rest of you. Tyler Evans. Nobody gives a fuck about you. You were a joke against Joseph Summers. You were a joke in the Crusaders and as a far as I'm concerned you're a joke now with no chance in hell of winning. Good luck cocksucker, you'll need it, I'm not wasting my breath on you.
Damien Alphtraum and Tempest. FcW's representatives in this match. Believe me, I'm going to have a lot of fun humbling you two dipshits. Its not that I have anything personal against either of you per say, its just that quite frankly FcW in general has been pissing me off lately. Even when CPW can't get rid of their fucking merchandise these blow hards have the nerve to talk about how much better they are than me and all other CPW originals. That and my back still hurts from that shit Wild pulled on me. So guess what, I'm going to use you two to give the fans a demonstration of just how great FcW is before Symphony of Destruction and the Clique do the same thing several times over in the main event. Hopefully when you two wake up in the ER the nurses can convince you to forgive me. Hell, you know what, since neither of you deserve the horrible, violent beating I'm going to give you just for my own selfish amusement why don't each of you pick out one of those nurses I mentioned and I'll be sure to slip them something extra to make sure your sponge baths are particularly enjoyable. You know just to be fair.”
Iron Head ends his rant with a slight chuckle before handing the microphone back to Brett. The former elimination champion goes back over to the Latino waitress he'd been seen with earlier and pulls her into his lap as he continues to work on the bottle of tequila he'd been drinking. His manager, Brett in the mean time, steps forward into the camera.
“You heard it here folks. Dia de los Muertos, a day to honor the dead, a day in which my client Iron Head will rise to prominence once again. I speak for both of us when I say I'm looking forward to seeing you all this Sunday,” Brett, or Mr. B as most know him, gives the microphone to the cameraman before adding “we're done here, go tell Miss Charisma to interview the next chump.”
Fade to black.
“Welcome CPW fans to Mexico! CPW bienvenido ventila a México,” she says excitedly “the superstars of CPW are in Tijuana, getting ready for our annual tribute to our Latino friends, Dia de los Muertos. That means day of the dead for those of you who don't speak Spanish. Anyways let's see who we can find shall we?"
The camera follows Miss Charisma through long the pool through the crowd of people for a few moments before stopping at two figures, wearing nothing but bathing suits and sunglasses. One has a bottle of tequila in his hand that's clearly missing more than just a few shots and seems more interested in the scantly clad, big breasted Latino waitress he's talking to. He is Lee “Iron Head” Abraham. The other is lying down and appears to be asleep. This notion however is obviously incorrect as he notices the camera and Claira before his cohort. He is Iron Head's manager “Mr. B” himself Brett Abraham.
“Well it seems we've found our first two superstars,” says a the perky female interviewer “for those of you unaware, Iron Head has a huge ultimate X match at Dia de los Muertos. The man next to him is his manager, only known as Mr. B, he's...”
“Thank you Claira, I'll take it from here,” interjects Brett, stealing the microphone away from Claira. She opens her mouth to protest, but he just face palms her, shoving her into the pool. Several of the fans gawk at Brett's actions but others just sort of laugh. Brett ignores them all and continues “Ladies and gentlemen, fans of all ages pay attention! My client, Iron Head, is the future of this business. He's only been in this business a year and already he's gone toe to toe with some of the best, leaving blood and bodies in his wake. This Sunday is Dia de los Muertos, a fitting name because on that day the still budding legacy Tony Murdock meets an early end as Iron Head...”
This time it was Brett's turn to get cut off as Lee finally notices the camera and takes action. He whispers something into the ear of the Latino chick he's talking to, takes another drink from the tequila bottle and walks over to his younger brother. Lee places his arm around Brett and pulls the younger Abraham in closely but makes sure the microphone is still close enough to pick up what he says.
“Look at me Brett. Am I really that drunk?”
“No.”
“Do I have some sort of speech impediment?”
“No.”
“Is my name Bill Goldberg, David Batista, or Bobby Lashly?”
“Um..no.”
“Then give me the fucking mic!” Okay so the former elimination champion might have been just a little bit drunk.
The slightly liqueured up pro wrestler steals the microphone from his considerably smaller counterpart and actually pushes Brett back out of the way and steps forward so that the camera is focused mostly on him.
“The past few days I've been seeing promo after promo from my opponents. And each and every time I think one of these idiots can't shove their heads any further up their collective asses they some how defy the odds in ways that would make Cena jealous and prove me wrong.
First I feel I should address the Platinum Player since he seems to be on camera the most. First of all kid I'm addressing you and not Black Mojito because yeah, lets face it, there's no way you're losing to a guy who sounds like he was named after something my sister would order at a bar. I admire your dedication kid, a pro wrestler and a college student. That shit takes a lot of work especially because from what I can tell you have a major that actually requires more than a pulse to complete. I applaud you kid but this ain't some fairy tale nor is it whatever fucking minor league federation you debuted in. Here's whats going to happen kid, consider me a fucking prophet, you're going to go into your first match and kick the shit out of Black Mojito and then you're going to step into the ring with me and I'm going to kick the fucking shit out of you. I'm sorry kid but this is the big leagues here, nobody gives a fuck about you. Plain and simple, now lets move on shall we? I think I feel my buzz starting to die.
Next we have Reggie Starr. Quite possibly the biggest fucking waste of potential in this whole god damned business. You're actually going back and talking shit about how you had it so hard? About how the ghetto made you tough and hard and you're now fighting for all your niggers in the hood or some shit like that? Haven't we already done this song and dance before? Yeah we have, I kicked your sorry ass then and I'll kick it now. Starr I'm going to make it very clear for you. There is not a single person in this whole god forsaken business, much less this company that is even going to pretend like they give a fuck just because your mother was a crack whore and your worthless, piece of shit father was her pimp and dealer. I'll admit I had it easy compared to you. Know what, I'm damn proud of it. Now please for the love of Satan, shut the fuck up before you make my ears bleed. You want to make your people proud, here's an idea. Close your fucking mouth and start training. Just because you can occasionally get lucky and destroy some jobber like Alex Falcon does not make you the savior of your race or whatever the fuck it was you tried to call yourself. Jesus fucking Christ, even my black friends who grew up poor know you're full of shit. But enough about Starr, thinking about the shit Starr's been spewing is making my head hurt from the sheer stupidity of it.
Murdock, you've made quite a name for yourself. Winning the Air Raid and well not much else that anybody gives a fuck about. Oh yeah you also had a rather uneventful reign as elimination champion and you had a money in the bank contract that you completely wasted. Way to live up to your potential, sport. I'm sure your wife and kids must be proud. Oh wait...never mind. You talk about how you've been through hell and back serving in Iraq and all. Guess what motherfucker, so have I. I spent four years in the fucking Marine Core, doing everything I could to stay on the front lines. I've seen seventeen year old boys take fifty caliber slugs to the fucking skull, I saw my best friend get blown up by a grenade to save my life and lives of several of my men. I've been shot, peppered with shrapnel and had artillery fire go off less than 20 feet away from me. Murdock I'm not going to play the part of the angry vet but don't you dare assume you're the only one of us who has ever seen hell. You lost your family, I got fucking disowned by mine and left by my fiancée at the time. You have the gall to say I don't know what I'm fighting for. Well get your head out of your ass you pompous fuck and pay attention. I'm fighting for the glory that should be mine. I'm fighting for fortune, for greatness, for my self. I'm fighting for what this entire fucking country owes me and men like me who have willingly put themselves through hell just so the rest of you idiots could sit back at home all comfortable in the freedom we give you and talk shit about us and about how we shouldn't be over there or even that we deserve to die for killing a bunch of innocent Iraqi's. Fuck you Murdock.
Now on to the rest of you. Tyler Evans. Nobody gives a fuck about you. You were a joke against Joseph Summers. You were a joke in the Crusaders and as a far as I'm concerned you're a joke now with no chance in hell of winning. Good luck cocksucker, you'll need it, I'm not wasting my breath on you.
Damien Alphtraum and Tempest. FcW's representatives in this match. Believe me, I'm going to have a lot of fun humbling you two dipshits. Its not that I have anything personal against either of you per say, its just that quite frankly FcW in general has been pissing me off lately. Even when CPW can't get rid of their fucking merchandise these blow hards have the nerve to talk about how much better they are than me and all other CPW originals. That and my back still hurts from that shit Wild pulled on me. So guess what, I'm going to use you two to give the fans a demonstration of just how great FcW is before Symphony of Destruction and the Clique do the same thing several times over in the main event. Hopefully when you two wake up in the ER the nurses can convince you to forgive me. Hell, you know what, since neither of you deserve the horrible, violent beating I'm going to give you just for my own selfish amusement why don't each of you pick out one of those nurses I mentioned and I'll be sure to slip them something extra to make sure your sponge baths are particularly enjoyable. You know just to be fair.”
Iron Head ends his rant with a slight chuckle before handing the microphone back to Brett. The former elimination champion goes back over to the Latino waitress he'd been seen with earlier and pulls her into his lap as he continues to work on the bottle of tequila he'd been drinking. His manager, Brett in the mean time, steps forward into the camera.
“You heard it here folks. Dia de los Muertos, a day to honor the dead, a day in which my client Iron Head will rise to prominence once again. I speak for both of us when I say I'm looking forward to seeing you all this Sunday,” Brett, or Mr. B as most know him, gives the microphone to the cameraman before adding “we're done here, go tell Miss Charisma to interview the next chump.”
Fade to black.