Real Promo Of The Week

[Drag]

Three

Two…

This On?!

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“Alastor… Touchdown…”

A gravelly voice, resounding in a location resembling a void. Illuminated by a lone spotlight and swirling mist. Under the light steps a man, hair frenzied and drooped over his face.

“You’re goin’ face-to-face… with, The God of Extreme…”

“Spike. Kane.”

Chuckling with an obnoxious rasp, the man extends his arms like a messiah. With his thinner figure and darker hair, it is painfully apparent this man is not Spike Kane.

“I’m a LEGEND! I’ve won THIS title. I’ve won THAT title. I’ve beaten THIS guy and THAT guy!”

Arms flail outward with each self-aggrandizing proclamation.

“Done THIS! Done THAT! You?... what’ve you done!?”

An accusatory finger towards the camera accompanied by his face contorting into a snarl.

“You’re a JOKE! A clown! A coward who cost Chaos Theory the match at First Contact. But now, I’m gonna HURT YA! CAUSE I- I’M SPIKE KANE! I’M A BADASS! I’M AN EVIL MOTHERFUCKER! YOU DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”

He begins pounding on his chest.

“CHAOS AWAITS YOU!”

“ALL HAIL!”

“ALL HAIL!”

“ALL! BLOODY! HAIL!!!!”

After holding on to that last yell for some time, the man falls silent. Standing amongst the mist for a few moments before flicking his hair back, Alastor Touchdown scoffs.

“I just saved ya the time spent watchin’ a Spike Kane promo by condensing every drop of bullshit that’ll come outta his mouth.”

Dusting his hands, Touchdown walks away. Spitting with disdain for even the mimicry of Spike as he leaves.

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We fade in on New York, as we have done many times with The Jamrockers. However, the presentation is different from what we’re used to. Instead of a bright sunny day complimented by warm colours, it is the dead of night as we sweep the streets. The camera slower and methodical as it passes by the lit up rides of Coney Island, nightclub exteriors, women blowing kisses towards the camera. Before, finally, settling on Alastor Touchdown. Sat in a rooftop garden, dimly lit by torches and the moon above.

Instead of the gaudy outfits he is known for, he is dressed plainly in a leather jacket and mirrored shades. Which serves to emphasise his shirt, displaying an airbrushed recreation of The Jamrockers hitting the Tuna Meltzer Driver on Hank Haggard Sr.

“Never before has so much weight been lifted off someone’s shoulders from a glob of spit.”

Smiling ruefully, Touchdown relaxes his hands behind his head and leans back.

“Can't speak for Jimi. But, honestly? I liked who we were. I liked sayin’ whatever inane shit came to my head, slappin’ hands, kickin’ jams, all that stuff. The problem is, our entire careers have been spent bein’ entertaining but never bein’ rewarded.”

Expression dropping into a frown. Jaw clenching as he turns his head towards the camera.

“Spike, as a guy that self-styles as a villain, maybe you can at least understand the perspective here. Since IPW’s inception, people ain’t been tuning in to watch “The Necessary Channel Change” Ana Somnia, they haven’t tuned in to hear Cross Recoba drone with a drink in one hand and a thesaurus in the other. They certainly ain’t tuned in to see you an’ PRICE rattle off things you’ve accomplished while overlooking an entire division. They’ve tuned in for The Jamrockers. But what’ve we got to show for that?”

“Nothin’.”

His lackadaisical demeanour changers. Hands resting on the table as he leans forward.

“Nothin’.”

“I wanted to get that off my chest because, whilst I know your motivations in this match come solely from a title shot bein’ on the line and havin’ the opportunity to fix your ego after The Jamrockers humiliated you at First Contact. I want ya to understand how personal it is for me.”

Horns of traffic blare below, the soundtrack to Touchdown’s rising vitriol lacing his words.

“Me an’ Cooldown, it’s been noted by everyone how we fuck around and don’t take much seriously. People said that as a criticism. But, the way I see it? We’ve been competing with one hand tied behind our backs, more focused on putting on good shows and connecting with the crowds. Yet, despite that lack of drive in our performances, we STILL made ourselves a fixture in IPW. STILL beat the likes of Judy and Reckless Hack. STILL made the likes of Somnia or Dead Air Express lucky to eke out wins against us.”

“We’ve been overlooked and underrated since day one. But this time we’re gonna start makin’ people pay for that.”

Pointing towards the camera, all affability gone as he addresses Kane directly.

“Which starts with you, you greasy piece of shit. You, who looks down on everybody else yet demands respect for shit you’ve done elsewhere and cries like a bitch when he doesn’t get it.”

“We aren’t gonna scrap like PRICE and Jackie Haggard. It’s gonna be a match where I lead you like a bull in a china shop. Smashing into wherever I send ya and falling into every trap I set, ‘cause you’re that susceptible to rage and I’m that fuckin’ talented. These ain’t empty threats either, we proved ourselves smarter than you and PRICE at First Contact. You’ve proven to have the thinnest skin on the Network for the slightest act of disrespect.”

Smirk creeping onto Touchdown’s face as the dancing flames of the torches cast him in shadow.

“Unfortunately for you, disrespect's my thing.”

“I will embarrass you. Not ‘cause you lost to the guy who’s perceived as a joke. But because I’m gonna spit on your legacy; and you won’t be able to do shit about it.”

He stands, removing his shades and tossing them over the side to the streets below. Defiance, etched on his being.

“That’s the Jam now. No legends. No masters. No one better than us. If you don’t like it?...”

A thrust of his crotch emphasised by his arms chopping adjacently. The message is clear.

“Suck. Our. Dicks.”

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Out Of Control...

Anything Goes