Post by guillotinegb on May 26, 2021 21:20:52 GMT -5
The ever-dulcet tones of Graham Baker ring out through what appears to be a trashed bar somewhere in The Bronx, the bartender trying to clean off the glass shards of a bloodied patron as Baker slugs back a long swig from a tall can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Baker glances at the camera and cracks a smile.
“Since I came to the ‘states, I’ve always been a bit of a Philadelphia guy, you know? And it’s not like everyone in Philly hates New York quite like I do, but all I’ve experienced in the so-called Big Apple is a city shit-full of worms and fuckin’ rot. Y’all make us look like saints in comparison, and we’re the bastards who pelted boulders and batteries at some poor fuckin’ Santa Claus on Christmas.
But, I digress.
The South Bronx Championship match has provided quite the opportunity for me, the chance to rip something valuable away from David Goon, something that he surely didn’t intend for me to set my eyes upon, but something I set my eyes upon regardless. You see, David-the moment you set foot in Strong Style Wrestling, my territory, and decided to defend that championship, you became more than just a champion.
You became a target.
Pirates like myself, emerging from my territory? We’re always looking for gold and plunder. When you flaunted that championship in the Cow Palace, swinging it high above your head, putting Emmanuelle in the dirt? You caught my eye. I’m opportunistic, I’ll admit, some sort of fuckin’ wild rabid dog frothin’ at the mouth, droolin’ all over the place lookin’ for an opportunity to score. You walked out of SSW with that belt around your waist, and I followed you home. You didn’t lock your doors, didn’t leave your fortress reinforced, you let me wander in, and I intend to wander out with that strap in my hands, one way or another.
The competition around me, David, it ain’t lost on me. Someone like El Rey is almost certainly more attuned to the adrenaline high of scrambling up a fuckin’ ladder and hangin’ a belt from on high before becoming as God, but I don’t have much patience for a petulant toddler with fuckin’ facepaint on. I’ve got eyes for you, Goon, and if this…lesser goon gets in my way, I’ll gladly paint new lines on the ringside cement with the leakin’ brain from his cracked skull. He might want this win, but he won’t get it.
Same goes for Beau Traywick, a guy who I’d imagine wants to turn this championship back into the Southern States Representative that it rightfully should be! I respect his mission, but I can’t respect the man. I can’t respect someone who’d willingly throw themselves in the way of the butcher’s blade to try and catch hold of some gold to bring home for their family. Families, man, they just hold you back. Mine almost stopped me from getting into this whole industry, and once I cast that dead weight aside, I was able to turn it into raw, unending passion. Traywick might be fighting for his family’s pride, his land’s pride, but pride can’t do much when a two-hundred and fifty pound beast is bearing down to cut you to fuckin’ pieces.
The Siren wants to stand out on her own, and what better way than to become King-or in this case, Queen-of the fuckin’ mountain? To pry that Southern Bronx Championship away from a guy like you, Goon, would be all she needed to rise that star up and make something of herself. It’d come at our expense, though, and while I’m not necessarily a monster, and in any other case I’d love to see someone rise above their fuckin’ agency...I can’t let it happen at Hostile Intent. If I’ve gotta cave that bitch’s skull to get mine, I sure as shit will.
And speaking of what’s someone’s…Nathan Parker’s gotta have the best case, right? He’s the only fucker in this match to already have possessed the goddamn belt, and then it was stolen from him by some dude who slapped the word ‘Bronx’ on the very end of it. Parker might have a penchant for fine wine and spirits, but I truthfully, honestly hope he’s sober enough to try his hardest tonight, just so he feels the undulled pain and hurt when I rip his chance at reclaiming pride and joy away from him one more fuckin’ time.
It’s a field, Goon, contenders who all want this prize, who all want to take that strap off your waist and hold it as their own. It looks to me, too, to be a bastion of corpses, a grouping of flesh that I’m going to rip and tear through, until I have no more energy to expend. For weeks, I made Joshua Darkwood my bitch, and it gave me all the clout and courage I needed to come running headfirst into you and your ilk.
It’s like I said, David, I followed you home, and like the little boy in the Bronx who used to bring home the dirty, rabid strays, you’re gonna learn a valuable lesson;
Watch your back on your walk home, and lock your fuckin’ door when you get there.
...lest a Bronx-bashing Kaiju comes and runs your fuckin' pockets.”
Baker finishes his tallboy, and throws a couple dollars onto the ruined bar-top before fishing through his jacket pockets for a cigarette. He sticks it between his lips, and ignites it, taking a long pull and letting the smoke waft out of his mouth before he steps over a few more battered patrons, and heads out through the front door, into the New York Night.