Post by The Colossus on May 13, 2021 12:50:18 GMT -5
Walter Wehzl was, as always, all business. The man likely had his own childhood bulldozed for a meager profit.
To say that Walter Wehzl is a simple man is to understate and misunderstand his purposes entirely. He did not enjoy Northern Pro Wrestling, he did not care for its simple, unwashed fans, and he certainly did not enjoy what passed for competition for his Colossus.
He saw men like Donzig as being about one Elon Musk reference or MENSA claim on the direct route an eye roll. He did not want to display this much emotion, of course, admitting that those who are so far below him in class, breeding, education..
Any metric that matters..
Got under his skin.
But he chafed at the idea that he had to endure another show listening to these men. These men without quality. These men were just without.
He could smell Jesse Jamester itching to break free of the tag team titles and pursue the kinds of glory that seemed to be a very big deal in the XHF at large.
Walter Wehzl, did not care that the writing was on the wall there. Battle Royals were of zero consequence. If someone the Colossus carried the day for him and his eternally distracted partner, he would simply have to hear the moaning and whining of men who wouldn’t or couldn’t beat him in a true wrestling match.
People like John Cavanagh, who called himself Johnnie as an adult man. The quaint simplicity of it all. The kind of man who was about two meters removed from being a trench digger or a tile layer. Thought himself and his ragtag band of nobodies were dangerous. Yet when The Colossus was as distracted and filled with bad ideas as his partner currently was, Cavanagh was always conveniently absent from the scene.
Walter shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have time for these men. Aliens, Clowns, Hair Farmers, Time Travellers. He had been to a Carnival as a child. He didn’t enjoy it then, and he didn’t enjoy it now.
The only shock was that Gus Arnold felt it appropriate that this was the best way to spend the coin of The Colossus’ time.
Of.
his.
time
Whezl chafed at the whole of it. Whezl didn’t care about the tag team championships, therefore the Colossus’ didn’t care about the tag team championships.
Whezl:
“If I had my way, there would’ve been talk between the bag man attached to The Colossus, and myself. However, as being laid out by Eron Hunter appears to be more his speed these days. And arguing with Anthony Caffrey of all people, I suppose the story of this tag team is nearly done.
If he desires to be pulled in the thousand directions of a man with no focus, let it be so.
I have zero interest in these small, venal men. Primal and Alex Turner have managed to finally make the leap from being plowed over individually, to make a habit of grouping up for it. I am sure Alex Turner’s endless litany of perceived slights will be especially poignant and noteworthy. I certainly look forward to having the assistant of an assistant determine the validity of such things.
Primal of course, remains worthless, not worthy of mention. The man, if I guess his gender correctly, should have been euthanized at birth. That I have to taste his name in my mouth is an indication of how low professional wrestling has sunk.
None of these men matter in any concrete way, chasing their self-defined fiefdoms and pretending they have territory, that they have anything substantive. Look over this list not named the Colossus.
When they are not fellating and self-congratulating themselves, they are drifting, like trash in some squalid forgotten hovel, starving mangy dogs running the failed and rusted out street, forgotten. They are participants in a three-legged race at a poisoned fairgrounds. Where anonymity and being forgotten are the only outcomes.
Gus Arnold thinks that by spray painting the outhouse gold, that he has created intrigue, that he has fostered the kind of chaos that will make the beer chuggers and peanut eaters happy.
There is a singular reason that I will even allow the Colossus to appear at this absolute waste of my time. It is certainly not because I think there is talent in this match to test my Colossus.
It is because the Untouchables who dared to interfere in my business will be present. All of the other chaff in this morass is of zero value to me.
You two. “
Whezl drew an accusing finger.
“I will not rest until I have broken you.”
The Colossus, masked, standing sentinel becomes visibly, backlit, light shining through a maze of studs and spikes.
Whezl:
“Do NOT think that your elimination from this match will spare you. Neither of you is your forebearer.
Neither of you are going to be anything more than an object lesson in what happens when you interfere in my business. Do you think that lazy drunk is coming to save you? Do you think Gaz Mayberry of all people will be able to return the favor you showed him so kindly?
Do you envision that he will be able to stop staring at the bottom of a mug long enough to give you salvation?
What do you think the chances are that you are going to walk away from this match as more than a figment of a figment of a shadow?
No.
No.
Do not presume to think, to hope.
There is no palingenesis for you. Behold the fires of your demise!”
Whezl gestures broadly to the backlit Colossus, who deferred movement, instead, standing an image of carved marble, the Avatar of Brute Force.
Whezl:
“I will see to it personally that you two burn.
For daring to stand against me.”
The Colossus brought his hands together and cackled like the approach of thunderheads.
To say that Walter Wehzl is a simple man is to understate and misunderstand his purposes entirely. He did not enjoy Northern Pro Wrestling, he did not care for its simple, unwashed fans, and he certainly did not enjoy what passed for competition for his Colossus.
He saw men like Donzig as being about one Elon Musk reference or MENSA claim on the direct route an eye roll. He did not want to display this much emotion, of course, admitting that those who are so far below him in class, breeding, education..
Any metric that matters..
Got under his skin.
But he chafed at the idea that he had to endure another show listening to these men. These men without quality. These men were just without.
He could smell Jesse Jamester itching to break free of the tag team titles and pursue the kinds of glory that seemed to be a very big deal in the XHF at large.
Walter Wehzl, did not care that the writing was on the wall there. Battle Royals were of zero consequence. If someone the Colossus carried the day for him and his eternally distracted partner, he would simply have to hear the moaning and whining of men who wouldn’t or couldn’t beat him in a true wrestling match.
People like John Cavanagh, who called himself Johnnie as an adult man. The quaint simplicity of it all. The kind of man who was about two meters removed from being a trench digger or a tile layer. Thought himself and his ragtag band of nobodies were dangerous. Yet when The Colossus was as distracted and filled with bad ideas as his partner currently was, Cavanagh was always conveniently absent from the scene.
Walter shook his head in disgust. He didn’t have time for these men. Aliens, Clowns, Hair Farmers, Time Travellers. He had been to a Carnival as a child. He didn’t enjoy it then, and he didn’t enjoy it now.
The only shock was that Gus Arnold felt it appropriate that this was the best way to spend the coin of The Colossus’ time.
Of.
his.
time
Whezl chafed at the whole of it. Whezl didn’t care about the tag team championships, therefore the Colossus’ didn’t care about the tag team championships.
Whezl:
“If I had my way, there would’ve been talk between the bag man attached to The Colossus, and myself. However, as being laid out by Eron Hunter appears to be more his speed these days. And arguing with Anthony Caffrey of all people, I suppose the story of this tag team is nearly done.
If he desires to be pulled in the thousand directions of a man with no focus, let it be so.
I have zero interest in these small, venal men. Primal and Alex Turner have managed to finally make the leap from being plowed over individually, to make a habit of grouping up for it. I am sure Alex Turner’s endless litany of perceived slights will be especially poignant and noteworthy. I certainly look forward to having the assistant of an assistant determine the validity of such things.
Primal of course, remains worthless, not worthy of mention. The man, if I guess his gender correctly, should have been euthanized at birth. That I have to taste his name in my mouth is an indication of how low professional wrestling has sunk.
None of these men matter in any concrete way, chasing their self-defined fiefdoms and pretending they have territory, that they have anything substantive. Look over this list not named the Colossus.
When they are not fellating and self-congratulating themselves, they are drifting, like trash in some squalid forgotten hovel, starving mangy dogs running the failed and rusted out street, forgotten. They are participants in a three-legged race at a poisoned fairgrounds. Where anonymity and being forgotten are the only outcomes.
Gus Arnold thinks that by spray painting the outhouse gold, that he has created intrigue, that he has fostered the kind of chaos that will make the beer chuggers and peanut eaters happy.
There is a singular reason that I will even allow the Colossus to appear at this absolute waste of my time. It is certainly not because I think there is talent in this match to test my Colossus.
It is because the Untouchables who dared to interfere in my business will be present. All of the other chaff in this morass is of zero value to me.
You two. “
Whezl drew an accusing finger.
“I will not rest until I have broken you.”
The Colossus, masked, standing sentinel becomes visibly, backlit, light shining through a maze of studs and spikes.
Whezl:
“Do NOT think that your elimination from this match will spare you. Neither of you is your forebearer.
Neither of you are going to be anything more than an object lesson in what happens when you interfere in my business. Do you think that lazy drunk is coming to save you? Do you think Gaz Mayberry of all people will be able to return the favor you showed him so kindly?
Do you envision that he will be able to stop staring at the bottom of a mug long enough to give you salvation?
What do you think the chances are that you are going to walk away from this match as more than a figment of a figment of a shadow?
No.
No.
Do not presume to think, to hope.
There is no palingenesis for you. Behold the fires of your demise!”
Whezl gestures broadly to the backlit Colossus, who deferred movement, instead, standing an image of carved marble, the Avatar of Brute Force.
Whezl:
“I will see to it personally that you two burn.
For daring to stand against me.”
The Colossus brought his hands together and cackled like the approach of thunderheads.