Absurdity and the art of beating a dead horse until it dies.
Dec 8, 2020 22:13:49 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Jonnie Valentine, and 4 more like this
Post by Justin on Dec 8, 2020 22:13:49 GMT -5
Did you know that the Crescent City Fight Club had a lecture hall?
Well, they do now.
Angus had it installed, probably.
There is a podium at the back center of the room, raised by a dais and marked by an elaborate golden trim over a rich mahogany stained wood. That is to say, it’s very nice. Standing behind said podium dressed in a yellow tweed coat, his face adorned with spectacles, and looking as academic as is possible for a man who’s never seen the inside of an institution of higher learning is one Eric Dane, yonder Only Star.
Ne, Professor of Wrestling Psychology.
That’s right, we’re running this gimmick into the ground.
Behind him and just over his shoulder is a stark white projector screen.
Dane:
Before we begin today’s lecture, I’d first like to delineate the entire reason for the existence of one Scott Steel, esquire.
From the aether comes a spotlight centered on the middle seat of the first row of the Shakespearian In the Round style seating. Sitting there, baffled at his whereabouts and likely even how he got here in the first place is said Mountain of NPW.
Dane:
I’ve become increasingly aware that there is the growing sentiment that Scott Steel is either a passable wrestler or competent on the stick. Now, it’s pretty well known that I’m not the type of fellow to participate in fake news and the like so let me go ahead and put the kibosh on this shit right here and right now.
The Professor straightens his cornflower blue bowtie.
Dane:
Scott Steel, while endearing to you remedial type, is in fact little more than a bought and paid for slab of beef. Wagyu Prime, I may add, but beef all the same. I found the guy on a beach somewhere screaming and slobbering and military pressing tractor tires.
He is neither capable, nor interested, in developing the kind of communication skills that it takes to carry on a conversation with a potted plant, let alone you troglodytes.
Every modicum of wrestling acumen that he has a grasp of, that is to say powerbombs and chokeslams, are because Angus Skaaland has spent hundreds if not thousands of hours with Scott, at my behest, to make him the biggest, meanest, body-stackin’est son of a bitch that ever walked that aisle.
The Mountain nods absently. The Boss is talking, which means YOU are listening.
Dane:
That’s right, Big Shoots, I’m talkin’ about you!
Falling out of lucidity, Scott turns his attention back to drinking what some in the medical industry have called a “concerning” amount of pre-workout. Even more concerning, Scott’s face is on the package. The why and how of who would sponsor The Mountain as the face of a brand, however, is a story for a different time.
Today, he is vibrating.
Dane:
Moving right along…
A projector hums to life. The Mountain is startled momentarily, but a stern glare from Eric Dane puts the big man right back down into his seat. The Professor rolls his eyes as he clicks a button on a handheld device that looks comically exactly the way you’d expect a clicker to look.
Dane:
First thing’s first, we’ve got the twerp.
Scott’s giant, bushy brow furrows.
Steel:
IMGOINGTEAROFFYOURENTIREHEADANDTHENWRAPITINYOURJACKETANDUSEITFORLAwNBOWLINGYOUFLOURESCENTMIDGET.
Dane: He fucked your girlfriend, you know, broke her leg while he was doin’ it!
Steel:
IMGONNASTAPLEANAMERICANFLAGTOYOURASSANDMAILYOUTOIRANINNINETEENEIGHTYEIGHT
Click.
Dane:
This guy said he was the “king” of powerbombs. Would you agree to that?
Steel:
IWOULDNOT
Dane:
Wouldn’t you?
Steel:
WHYWOULDI
Dane:
I heard his theme song was “Would” by Alice in Chains. How does that make you feel?
Steel:
IWOULDTHENFINDHIMPOWEROMBEDTHROUGHTHERING
Dane facepalms.
Dane:
Outside of the ring, Scott. You powerbomb him over the top ropes and into the third row. Otherwise he’s still in the match.
Dejected, Dane clicks the button again.
Steel:
LIZARDMAN!
Dane:
That’s right, your pal Jesse!
Steel:
WERETHECANCREAMOFCORNOFTHECROPGROUNDEMAN’POUNDEM
The Only Star nods.
Dane:
Yeah, that sounds about right.
Click.
Scott Steel laughed uncomfortably loudly, uproariously even, with no sense of threat upon seeing Dylan Black’s image. Dane waits a moment to see if Scott knows what the plan is, The Mountain continues the laughter eruption. It’s almost uncomfortable to see how little Scott Steel thinks of the X*Crown Champion.
Dane:
Yeah, no, that about sums it up.
Click.
Steel:
NECROMAGELOOKSLIKEHEROLLEDASIXWHENHENEEDEDATWENTYTOSAVETIMETODIEPOTATOMAN
Eric’s eyebrow twitches every so slightly. His head throbs, causing him to take off the non-prescription horn-rims he’d been wearing this entire time and rub at his now aching temples.
Dane:
That’s not Necrophage.
He deadpans.
Dane:
Or Nemo, for that matter.
Scott blinks, confused and getting angrier by the nano-second.
Dane:
It’s Lord Dominicus. He gave you, and everybody else, the stupid dogs.
Scott has gone into the red, all the way, overdrive to Saturn into the red.
The Mountain moves past Dane, hoisting the entire, and not small projector, and table it is on. It crashes with an imperially triumphant crash of glass, plastic, formica, and little faux brass door handles, Dane avoids all of this by simply standing behind Steel, who doubles as a blast shelter.
Steel:
[INCOMPREHENSIBLE]
Black.
Dane:
Well, fuck. I guess we’re done then. All you other guys suck too, whoever you might be.
Well, they do now.
Angus had it installed, probably.
There is a podium at the back center of the room, raised by a dais and marked by an elaborate golden trim over a rich mahogany stained wood. That is to say, it’s very nice. Standing behind said podium dressed in a yellow tweed coat, his face adorned with spectacles, and looking as academic as is possible for a man who’s never seen the inside of an institution of higher learning is one Eric Dane, yonder Only Star.
Ne, Professor of Wrestling Psychology.
That’s right, we’re running this gimmick into the ground.
Behind him and just over his shoulder is a stark white projector screen.
Dane:
Before we begin today’s lecture, I’d first like to delineate the entire reason for the existence of one Scott Steel, esquire.
From the aether comes a spotlight centered on the middle seat of the first row of the Shakespearian In the Round style seating. Sitting there, baffled at his whereabouts and likely even how he got here in the first place is said Mountain of NPW.
Dane:
I’ve become increasingly aware that there is the growing sentiment that Scott Steel is either a passable wrestler or competent on the stick. Now, it’s pretty well known that I’m not the type of fellow to participate in fake news and the like so let me go ahead and put the kibosh on this shit right here and right now.
The Professor straightens his cornflower blue bowtie.
Dane:
Scott Steel, while endearing to you remedial type, is in fact little more than a bought and paid for slab of beef. Wagyu Prime, I may add, but beef all the same. I found the guy on a beach somewhere screaming and slobbering and military pressing tractor tires.
He is neither capable, nor interested, in developing the kind of communication skills that it takes to carry on a conversation with a potted plant, let alone you troglodytes.
Every modicum of wrestling acumen that he has a grasp of, that is to say powerbombs and chokeslams, are because Angus Skaaland has spent hundreds if not thousands of hours with Scott, at my behest, to make him the biggest, meanest, body-stackin’est son of a bitch that ever walked that aisle.
The Mountain nods absently. The Boss is talking, which means YOU are listening.
Dane:
That’s right, Big Shoots, I’m talkin’ about you!
Falling out of lucidity, Scott turns his attention back to drinking what some in the medical industry have called a “concerning” amount of pre-workout. Even more concerning, Scott’s face is on the package. The why and how of who would sponsor The Mountain as the face of a brand, however, is a story for a different time.
Today, he is vibrating.
Dane:
Moving right along…
A projector hums to life. The Mountain is startled momentarily, but a stern glare from Eric Dane puts the big man right back down into his seat. The Professor rolls his eyes as he clicks a button on a handheld device that looks comically exactly the way you’d expect a clicker to look.
Dane:
First thing’s first, we’ve got the twerp.
Scott’s giant, bushy brow furrows.
Steel:
IMGOINGTEAROFFYOURENTIREHEADANDTHENWRAPITINYOURJACKETANDUSEITFORLAwNBOWLINGYOUFLOURESCENTMIDGET.
Dane: He fucked your girlfriend, you know, broke her leg while he was doin’ it!
Steel:
IMGONNASTAPLEANAMERICANFLAGTOYOURASSANDMAILYOUTOIRANINNINETEENEIGHTYEIGHT
Click.
Dane:
This guy said he was the “king” of powerbombs. Would you agree to that?
Steel:
IWOULDNOT
Dane:
Wouldn’t you?
Steel:
WHYWOULDI
Dane:
I heard his theme song was “Would” by Alice in Chains. How does that make you feel?
Steel:
IWOULDTHENFINDHIMPOWEROMBEDTHROUGHTHERING
Dane facepalms.
Dane:
Outside of the ring, Scott. You powerbomb him over the top ropes and into the third row. Otherwise he’s still in the match.
Dejected, Dane clicks the button again.
Steel:
LIZARDMAN!
Dane:
That’s right, your pal Jesse!
Steel:
WERETHECANCREAMOFCORNOFTHECROPGROUNDEMAN’POUNDEM
The Only Star nods.
Dane:
Yeah, that sounds about right.
Click.
Scott Steel laughed uncomfortably loudly, uproariously even, with no sense of threat upon seeing Dylan Black’s image. Dane waits a moment to see if Scott knows what the plan is, The Mountain continues the laughter eruption. It’s almost uncomfortable to see how little Scott Steel thinks of the X*Crown Champion.
Dane:
Yeah, no, that about sums it up.
Click.
Steel:
NECROMAGELOOKSLIKEHEROLLEDASIXWHENHENEEDEDATWENTYTOSAVETIMETODIEPOTATOMAN
Eric’s eyebrow twitches every so slightly. His head throbs, causing him to take off the non-prescription horn-rims he’d been wearing this entire time and rub at his now aching temples.
Dane:
That’s not Necrophage.
He deadpans.
Dane:
Or Nemo, for that matter.
Scott blinks, confused and getting angrier by the nano-second.
Dane:
It’s Lord Dominicus. He gave you, and everybody else, the stupid dogs.
Scott has gone into the red, all the way, overdrive to Saturn into the red.
The Mountain moves past Dane, hoisting the entire, and not small projector, and table it is on. It crashes with an imperially triumphant crash of glass, plastic, formica, and little faux brass door handles, Dane avoids all of this by simply standing behind Steel, who doubles as a blast shelter.
Steel:
[INCOMPREHENSIBLE]
Black.
Dane:
Well, fuck. I guess we’re done then. All you other guys suck too, whoever you might be.
