Post by RattyMcDaddy on Feb 23, 2022 2:25:54 GMT -5
If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name. – Kendrick Lamar
That name creates a legacy. That legacy becomes a legend.
We fade into a shit hole bar, in God knows where, but there, leaning against the bar with a Bastards Brew in his hand, is Rat Bastard. A Royal Blue-colored Adidas sweatsuit draped across his large frame. His hair slicked with grease, a few greys here and there tell his age, but nothing compared to the incoming wrinkles around his eyes. Those wrinkles tell the story of the man. A few scars on his forehead mark the battles he has encountered throughout his life. Slowly and methodically he begins to speak.
At the end of the day, all we have is our name, isn't it? The name Rat Bastard has gotten me into places and things that only most people could dream of. It has also gotten me into a whole bunch of shit, that someone like you will never understand Rebecca Jasmine Matthews-Brookes.
Rat raises his eyebrow as he takes a long hard chug of his drink. He sits his bottle back down on the bar, before wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatsuit.
The name Pierre Von Blankenship, believe it or not, my government name, as people like to say, has gotten me into far more trouble than the name Rat Bastard could ever have. It's gotten me attached to lawsuits, child support, tax issues, and other horse shit I would rather not talk about. The fact remains that long after I'm gone, both of those names will have a long-lasting legacy in this world, Rebecca. Shit, now that I think about it, the legacy of my government name, and my in-ring name, was made long before you were even a snot-nosed little crotch goblin running around shitting your pampers. People like to think it's just the luck of the draw, the who you were born to, the what country you come from, but that's not the case, Rebecca, you see it's a matter of wanting it all. Want the bad that comes with the good. It's the matter of not settling on being mediocre, or not wanting to be a cage fighter, but when that gets a bit too hard, wanting to become a professional wrestler, and attaching onto a crappy legacy like the one of your brother Ryan Young. The founding member of LGBTQ, or should I say the jealous third wheel of LGBTQ, riding the coattails of the much more talented Bloodied Fox, and the much more charismatic Seth Dillinger. Mediocre. At his fucking best. Yet this is what you want to settle for. What your family stands for. What legacy are you bringing into the ring with you at Inferno? Hell, your one claim to fame is that mediocre woman's title run-in SWAT, isn't it? An entire two weeks of being a slightly more than the mediocre champion. I bet Ryan was so proud, you finally made it to his exact level of mediocre.
Rats cell phone begins to ring with the sounds of the Imperial Death March. He pulls the phone from the back pocket of his sweat pants, looking at the number calling him before holding a finger towards the camera in a "give me a minute motion".
My boy, tell me, what's the good word?
Oh yeah?
Rat listens and his eyes light up a bit.
No shit my guy? That's exactly what I'm talking about. But look I'm in the middle of a thing, let me call you back in a few.
Rat smirks as he again listens.
Yeah yeah, you know Fireside shit, you'll find out about it all soon enough. Talk to you soon.
Rat hangs the phone up and quickly puts it back into the real pocket of his sweat pants. He again chugs his beer, finishing it, and pushing it towards the far end of the bar. Holding his hands up to his temples he continues.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, that's right legacy.
A fresh beer gets deposited in front of Rat, as he grasps it into his hand, using it to point towards the camera as he speaks.
The difference between people like you, and people like me are like Lemons, Rebecca. I am a big, juicy, yellow ripe Lemon, and when I need to squeeze to get that talent or that extra bit of grit or grime to push me over the top, it doesn't take much squeezing, because it's just there. It's just how I have been built, it's part of my being, it's my legacy. You on the other hand are a small, little, sided Lemon. To get anything worthwhile out of you, you have to be pressed hard, squeezed to a breaking point, or sliced and diced. It's the mediocre they run through your blood, it's the weakness that runs through your lineage, the settling when things get hard that makes you and what you about. I have been sacrificing to create my legacy, putting every waking second into every calculated move I've ever made since my first breath, and you have been trying to be bubbly and charming since your first. I fight and crawl for everything I want, and I destroy what's in my way, while you bat your eyelashes and giggle while playing with your hair. You like to say that losing tears you up inside, but you and I both know that's a lie, Princess. Because if it were true, you were be tattered and shredded like a Hulk Hogan threw the shirt in 1984. You like to play the game, act it all out, make yourself feel a certain way about things just because it makes you feel better about being what you truly are........a mediocre quitter, with a loser for a brother, a fifteen-day title reign as your greatest success, an empty lonely legacy to look back on, and a family name to not be proud of.
Rat smirks about as if he is proud of the words coming from his lips as if he can taste every hateful syllable. He slowly put his beer to his lips, drinking as he winks at the camera.
Come March 10th, though Rebecca, at Inferno, you're going to experience what a true legacy is. You're going to come face to face with what it is to be a real revolutionary. At the end of the night, when you're all alone in your hotel room, beaten, battered, and broken, you're going to reflect on this promo. You're going to think about every single thing that I've said. When the full display of the Bastard-Von Blankenship legend is blasted down upon you like a gallon of jizz in a bukkake snuff film, I don't want you to cry, I don't want you to break, I don't even want you to be torn to shreds by the loss. I just want you to walk over to that hotel room dresser, to kneel on the side of your hotel room bed, clasp your little manicured hands together, and ask your Lord almighty above, why couldn't I have been born a Bastard.
Rat chugs the rest of his beer, before digging into his pocket and pulling a crisp one hundred dollar bill out, placing it on the bar with the bottle of Bastard Brew on top of it. The camera zooms into Rats winking face on the bottle.
Have a blessed evening
Fade to black