Post by Thespian on Jun 9, 2022 15:01:43 GMT -5
Despite being contracted to stay on Thessanora Island for two weeks leading up to Call to Arms, the Thespian was made special arrangements for the last days.
Obviously, not to rest more despite life-threatening injuries, but to compete for NLW's G1 Tournament; another contractual obligation that he signed.
As he rides the plane straight back to New Orleans, Theo scrolls through his smartphone to get a glimpse at his bracket.
Spike Kane. He chuckles softly to himself.
Danni Anderson. He hums softly to himself to her causes.
And most importantly, his opponent for this weekend, The Great Buta.
Ah, yes... because a near-death cage match into the worst two weeks of my life was not enough; you gave me the death-match pig to start my bracket. I think I would have preferred Spike Kane again; he's probably still recovering from having his skull nearly caved in.
His head rolls under the mask; even without much of an audience present, he keeps up the mannerisms. He ponders how to address his opponent this week... no time to set up an elaborate promo set... no voice to narrate or talk shit anymore...
... and still no Interpreter to be his voice for him.
That thought depresses the wrestler.
... the moment you wake up, Ida, I owe you so many more nights out. But, lemme keep working on your hospital bill until then.
He leans back in his seat and considers his opponent once more.
Nearly a foot over me. More than DOUBLE my weight. Probably lacks any brain matter to scramble. Oh, and let's not forget the sadomasochism that comes from being a death-match wrestler in the first place. Sounds like a fun Saturday night if it WASN'T in a wrestling ring with an injured mute, but, eh, safe words are for pussies anyway.
But, 'Theo', didn't you use 'safe words' in the title match--
Yes, me, I know I did, I am the pussy... WAS the pussy... fuck off, okay? It was give up or actually die. We're not in a good situation already.
Clearly; you're mentally arguing with yourself.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Off. I need to think of how to address this freakshow.
He sits in his seat even more and thinks... the executives have put out a limitation on how much 'content' you can post to or on official NLW channels since there's going to be so many matches over the next couple of events.
So, what's the best way to deal with that limitation?
That's right. Twitter call out posts.
A couple minutes later, a notification goes out to all of Theo's followers... and Buta himself, should he be taggable, anyway;
Buta, I'm going to level with you here; if I wanted a pig's fingers in his mouth while he ravaged me, I'd be walking naked through the NOLA Pride Parade with as little clothes as possible.
But I am not. I'm spending the evening with you, fully clothed. GL, because I'll ruin you.
Obviously, not to rest more despite life-threatening injuries, but to compete for NLW's G1 Tournament; another contractual obligation that he signed.
As he rides the plane straight back to New Orleans, Theo scrolls through his smartphone to get a glimpse at his bracket.
Spike Kane. He chuckles softly to himself.
Danni Anderson. He hums softly to himself to her causes.
And most importantly, his opponent for this weekend, The Great Buta.
Ah, yes... because a near-death cage match into the worst two weeks of my life was not enough; you gave me the death-match pig to start my bracket. I think I would have preferred Spike Kane again; he's probably still recovering from having his skull nearly caved in.
His head rolls under the mask; even without much of an audience present, he keeps up the mannerisms. He ponders how to address his opponent this week... no time to set up an elaborate promo set... no voice to narrate or talk shit anymore...
... and still no Interpreter to be his voice for him.
That thought depresses the wrestler.
... the moment you wake up, Ida, I owe you so many more nights out. But, lemme keep working on your hospital bill until then.
He leans back in his seat and considers his opponent once more.
Nearly a foot over me. More than DOUBLE my weight. Probably lacks any brain matter to scramble. Oh, and let's not forget the sadomasochism that comes from being a death-match wrestler in the first place. Sounds like a fun Saturday night if it WASN'T in a wrestling ring with an injured mute, but, eh, safe words are for pussies anyway.
But, 'Theo', didn't you use 'safe words' in the title match--
Yes, me, I know I did, I am the pussy... WAS the pussy... fuck off, okay? It was give up or actually die. We're not in a good situation already.
Clearly; you're mentally arguing with yourself.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Off. I need to think of how to address this freakshow.
He sits in his seat even more and thinks... the executives have put out a limitation on how much 'content' you can post to or on official NLW channels since there's going to be so many matches over the next couple of events.
So, what's the best way to deal with that limitation?
That's right. Twitter call out posts.
A couple minutes later, a notification goes out to all of Theo's followers... and Buta himself, should he be taggable, anyway;
Buta, I'm going to level with you here; if I wanted a pig's fingers in his mouth while he ravaged me, I'd be walking naked through the NOLA Pride Parade with as little clothes as possible.
But I am not. I'm spending the evening with you, fully clothed. GL, because I'll ruin you.
... Yeah, I'm so fucked.