Post by The Colossus on Apr 5, 2021 22:41:12 GMT -5
A bookshelf.
A first in the history of Scott Steel.
No, Scott isn’t taking the Power of Raw Potato Thunder to it. He is standing in front of it, dressed in leather gloves, a spiked leather vest, no shirt, and black leather pants. His straight from the nineties curly blonde mullet is the type of thing you would write sonnets and ballads about.
Scott Steel is familiar with neither.
Walt Whezl sits at the polished and completely needlessly large monstrosity. His hands are steepled, his tweed ascot cap playing off his grey suit. Behind his manicured beard, and large glasses, his eyes glint maliciously.
Scott steps forward
“WHATIWAN…”
Whezl raises a single hand silencing the large man, who steps back, clearly chewing on whatever thought he wanted to elucidate at stadium rock volumes.
Whezl:
I wanted to address a situation of some importance. When I purchased the services of one Scott Steel, it was under arrangement with Eric Dane.
The arrangement is changing.
It’s changed.
As a matter of fact, there is no arrangement.
Steel, whose general annoyance has been high since the contract transfer, doesn’t seem to be hiding it well.
Whezl:
What I was told to watch, in something called SWAT. Was the man behind me, dressed in some community theater pastiche of Passion of the Christ. When I said Steel was DONE with distractions, Dane. I was serious. Let the wolves circle without him.
Hard thumb to the man behind him, who stands properly stoic. He cackles loudly.
“GAZMA…”
Whezl:
SILENCE!
A moment of tension passes as Whezl turns around stares at Steel, who once again recedes into the scenery. He turns back straightening his tie. Steel broods.
Whezl:
In due time, you will get to express that aggression on a proper target.
He continues to straighten his tie and steeples his hands.
Whezl:
I suppose in some way, the fact that Gaz Mayberry was able to stop talking to his dog from the gutter blanketed in bottles to talk cogently about the match at hand is something of an Easter miracle.
Perhaps the least of all miracles is Gaz Mayberry was able to string together consecutive words. Some of them even made sense consecutively. Mister Mayberry, I believe that you may have some events ordered incorrectly in the stewed prune inside of your skull. I even enjoy the fact you think MY Colossus has been angling to get in the ring with you for some time. While I may not be able to speak with absolute certainty that the Colossus behind had or had not considered you as an opponent, the record of such things is clear.
Prior to your being given to grace the ring with one of the champions in Northern Pro Wrestling, you were not a consideration.
This is likely something you are used to, trying to puff yourself up in front of your betters and make it seem like you have been spoiling for the fight, preparing diligently.
Though in your case, you would be better suited, rummy, to laying in the gutter, the hero of some sad sack novel written in your native land. A post-modern classic involving the insolvency and impotence of your hour to hour degradations and failings all culminating in your day ending much as it began.
Sharpen thy mind, Gaz Mayberry. Perhaps in the difficult intervening moments between the purchase of the Colossus’ contract and you stumbling to Northern Pro Wrestling, the small miracle you didn’t accidentally kick the cord that powered the whole reeking works.
I do not belong to the syndicate
Walt pauses, letting this thought marinate.
Whezl:
Nor does he, anymore. There are some niceties regarding Jesse Jamester that work out favorably for my planned uses of the man standing behind me.
One might even say the Syndicate as a group, in Northern Pro Wrestling, headed by one Eric Dane is no longer a concern.
Not that the day-to-day passing of the world around you seems to be of much concern. Much as you are of little concern to me. You are a paving stone, the corner slightly ajar, prompting the foot to trip if idle. The kind of paving stone your entire career is littered with no doubt, you sent flying perhaps, arms akimbo, wet grocer goods sent careering into the air. Just another story from a life made hard from poor choice after poor choice.
However, men like the Colossus, when properly guided, are able to avoid such small misfortunes through the focusing of a will to power.
My will is to see you sent to ruin. You will of course no doubt try to come back with some kind of plucky fire, the fired-up pleadings of a man who passed around the last bend of his career. Much like the man I just removed the Colossus from. That stinging feeling in your temples, not a hangover this time. But the knowledge that you simply are no longer good enough.
Age.
Misuse of what meager abilities you had.
A perhaps stout chin now gone.
A pugilist past his prime. The time comes now for you to embrace the autumn of your career as it fades to bitter and cold winter, One where Gaz Mayberry becomes another comma in the biography of another wrestler.
Perhaps you can find comfort in the pint of ale and the sickly sweet scent of sweat saturating the walls. You can sit with the rest of the working class scum, and talk about how for a moment you mattered. You can all gripe about how your betters talk down to you, and how in the good old days you could’ve stood tall against them.
Time for this charade to end.
Whezl focuses as Steel glares, hands stiff at his sides in fists.
Whezl:
At the Powerade Centre in Mississauga, April 13th. It ends for you, Mayberry.
Pay Attention.
Black.
A first in the history of Scott Steel.
No, Scott isn’t taking the Power of Raw Potato Thunder to it. He is standing in front of it, dressed in leather gloves, a spiked leather vest, no shirt, and black leather pants. His straight from the nineties curly blonde mullet is the type of thing you would write sonnets and ballads about.
Scott Steel is familiar with neither.
Walt Whezl sits at the polished and completely needlessly large monstrosity. His hands are steepled, his tweed ascot cap playing off his grey suit. Behind his manicured beard, and large glasses, his eyes glint maliciously.
Scott steps forward
“WHATIWAN…”
Whezl raises a single hand silencing the large man, who steps back, clearly chewing on whatever thought he wanted to elucidate at stadium rock volumes.
Whezl:
I wanted to address a situation of some importance. When I purchased the services of one Scott Steel, it was under arrangement with Eric Dane.
The arrangement is changing.
It’s changed.
As a matter of fact, there is no arrangement.
Steel, whose general annoyance has been high since the contract transfer, doesn’t seem to be hiding it well.
Whezl:
What I was told to watch, in something called SWAT. Was the man behind me, dressed in some community theater pastiche of Passion of the Christ. When I said Steel was DONE with distractions, Dane. I was serious. Let the wolves circle without him.
Hard thumb to the man behind him, who stands properly stoic. He cackles loudly.
“GAZMA…”
Whezl:
SILENCE!
A moment of tension passes as Whezl turns around stares at Steel, who once again recedes into the scenery. He turns back straightening his tie. Steel broods.
Whezl:
In due time, you will get to express that aggression on a proper target.
He continues to straighten his tie and steeples his hands.
Whezl:
I suppose in some way, the fact that Gaz Mayberry was able to stop talking to his dog from the gutter blanketed in bottles to talk cogently about the match at hand is something of an Easter miracle.
Perhaps the least of all miracles is Gaz Mayberry was able to string together consecutive words. Some of them even made sense consecutively. Mister Mayberry, I believe that you may have some events ordered incorrectly in the stewed prune inside of your skull. I even enjoy the fact you think MY Colossus has been angling to get in the ring with you for some time. While I may not be able to speak with absolute certainty that the Colossus behind had or had not considered you as an opponent, the record of such things is clear.
Prior to your being given to grace the ring with one of the champions in Northern Pro Wrestling, you were not a consideration.
This is likely something you are used to, trying to puff yourself up in front of your betters and make it seem like you have been spoiling for the fight, preparing diligently.
Though in your case, you would be better suited, rummy, to laying in the gutter, the hero of some sad sack novel written in your native land. A post-modern classic involving the insolvency and impotence of your hour to hour degradations and failings all culminating in your day ending much as it began.
Sharpen thy mind, Gaz Mayberry. Perhaps in the difficult intervening moments between the purchase of the Colossus’ contract and you stumbling to Northern Pro Wrestling, the small miracle you didn’t accidentally kick the cord that powered the whole reeking works.
I do not belong to the syndicate
Walt pauses, letting this thought marinate.
Whezl:
Nor does he, anymore. There are some niceties regarding Jesse Jamester that work out favorably for my planned uses of the man standing behind me.
One might even say the Syndicate as a group, in Northern Pro Wrestling, headed by one Eric Dane is no longer a concern.
Not that the day-to-day passing of the world around you seems to be of much concern. Much as you are of little concern to me. You are a paving stone, the corner slightly ajar, prompting the foot to trip if idle. The kind of paving stone your entire career is littered with no doubt, you sent flying perhaps, arms akimbo, wet grocer goods sent careering into the air. Just another story from a life made hard from poor choice after poor choice.
However, men like the Colossus, when properly guided, are able to avoid such small misfortunes through the focusing of a will to power.
My will is to see you sent to ruin. You will of course no doubt try to come back with some kind of plucky fire, the fired-up pleadings of a man who passed around the last bend of his career. Much like the man I just removed the Colossus from. That stinging feeling in your temples, not a hangover this time. But the knowledge that you simply are no longer good enough.
Age.
Misuse of what meager abilities you had.
A perhaps stout chin now gone.
A pugilist past his prime. The time comes now for you to embrace the autumn of your career as it fades to bitter and cold winter, One where Gaz Mayberry becomes another comma in the biography of another wrestler.
Perhaps you can find comfort in the pint of ale and the sickly sweet scent of sweat saturating the walls. You can sit with the rest of the working class scum, and talk about how for a moment you mattered. You can all gripe about how your betters talk down to you, and how in the good old days you could’ve stood tall against them.
Time for this charade to end.
Whezl focuses as Steel glares, hands stiff at his sides in fists.
Whezl:
At the Powerade Centre in Mississauga, April 13th. It ends for you, Mayberry.
Pay Attention.
Black.