Post by Bloodsport King on Aug 26, 2022 14:57:17 GMT -5
I don't play well with others.
Been that way ever since I was a kid - fuck, ever since I can remember really. There was always some reason to give everyone else around me pause. Classmates, kids at the park - even the adults in my life from a very young age looked at me and felt unsettled. Like they couldn't trust something in my eyes. Maybe I didn't realize it back then but looking back now? I can see it in their expressions, their actions. I don't think it was unfair, I don't think I was unfairly stigmatized. Nah, I think there's some part of me that's wired wrong - just off enough to trigger the primal instincts in the back of peoples heads. The one that says 'warning! danger!'.
Beyond that? I don't like being responsible for anyone but myself anyway. It'd be easy to say I just don't give a fuck about anyone else - and let's be clear I definitely don't give a fuck about everyone else - but there's more to it than that. I'm at my best when it's just me against whatever else - one man, two men, the world. It doesn't make a difference. I can fight from underneath no fucking problem, but if I have to babysit? That's when fuckups and mistakes happen - sorry, I'm just not a social butterfly. I don't give a shit about standing as a team, sharing the ring as equals. Even if we're on the same side - we ain't on the same side - get it?
But I'll fight ten, twenty - fuck it, a hundred fucking men on my own. With nobody else to blame but me for a mistake well - there's nobody else to blame. And that's how I like it - all of me against whatever's in my fucking way. And for the second time I've been put in a three way dance. But this time instead of giving me two fellow American to paint the canvas with, I get two Russians.
Which really means the only thing that has changed is the order of the fucking colors on the flag.
Supposedly, Irina Sokolov is into that hardcore shit. That heavy, blood soaked leave-a-piece-of-yourself-behind-but-even-more-pieces-of-your-opponent-shit. Supposedly though, that's the key word. The background on her is slim fuckin' pickens, not that I'm much the type to go around snooping like a detective anyway. But it's the shit I see a lot, y'know? Young spunky and with everything to prove - tell everybody you can handle the biggest and baddest, the bloodiest beatdowns. Candle in the fucking wind shit, and you know what usually happens? I'm the hurricane that rolls up and snuffs that shit out. Best case scenario is that's what happens here - I arrive fuck her shit to kingdom come and walk right back out. But it could go so much worse - who knows, this might be a hospital visit or a killed career. That's jsut the risk you take when you step in the ring with me though, I don't care enough to think about the consequences of my actions for you. You're the 'Bird of Prey' but I'm not some fucking squirrel or rabbit you can swoop down on for an easy meal. Nah sister, I'm the guy in camo with a twelve gauge lining up his shot while you flap around and waste time. So know this Irina, you better be more than a sparrow pretening to be an eagle or I'll clip those wings, permanently.
Now Aren Mstistlav is apparently the opposite. Some sort of homecoming hero - not to this company of course but he's apparently recently come back from some big hiatus from the business. He 'got bored'. He 'missed being on top'. He calls himself the Monarch so I bet he thinks he's come back to 'reclaim his kingdom'. Let's not beat around the bush - we're all heard this fucking story before. The returning champion, the conqueror who conveniently isn't returning to the place he supposedly made this big name for himself but instead somewhere totally different, come to 'grace' this new frontier of the sport with his presence and prove once again that he's the be-all-end-all of this business. You know what kind of people claim this shit? People who were shit, always shit - left their 'home' when everyone found out how shit they were and were never ever as good as they hyped themselves up to be. it's why they go to some new place and not 'home', it's why they sell themselves so damn hard. Because nobody here knows how much of a hack and a fraud they are yet.
Am I wrong, Aren? Then prove it. Get in the ring and show me that there really is something to this 'big returning legend' shit. Get in the ring and show me that you really are good enough to just decide to come back one day because you were bored. Matter of fact, get in the fucking ring with me and earn that Monarch's crown. Because until you do, to me you're just gonna be one more piss-ant poser who thinks he's good enough to be wrestling royalty.
I wipe my ass with guys like that 'Aren Mstistlav'. So if that's all you're gonna bring? maybe ask for your release and save me the trouble.
I may not play well with others, I may not to teams and I definitely don't fucking babysit - but situations like this? I thrive, I fucking excel. I don't care how many people you put me against - I'll murder every single one of these lousy stupid bastards until there's nobody left standing in my way. I'm on the fucking blood path, everything else that comes as a result of that - records, belts, acclaim? It's just bonus content to me.
I don't care if I'm the guy you respect in the locker room. But I will be the motherfucker that you fear.
I'm the solo act, and it's on the rest of you to adapt before the curtain call.
Been that way ever since I was a kid - fuck, ever since I can remember really. There was always some reason to give everyone else around me pause. Classmates, kids at the park - even the adults in my life from a very young age looked at me and felt unsettled. Like they couldn't trust something in my eyes. Maybe I didn't realize it back then but looking back now? I can see it in their expressions, their actions. I don't think it was unfair, I don't think I was unfairly stigmatized. Nah, I think there's some part of me that's wired wrong - just off enough to trigger the primal instincts in the back of peoples heads. The one that says 'warning! danger!'.
Beyond that? I don't like being responsible for anyone but myself anyway. It'd be easy to say I just don't give a fuck about anyone else - and let's be clear I definitely don't give a fuck about everyone else - but there's more to it than that. I'm at my best when it's just me against whatever else - one man, two men, the world. It doesn't make a difference. I can fight from underneath no fucking problem, but if I have to babysit? That's when fuckups and mistakes happen - sorry, I'm just not a social butterfly. I don't give a shit about standing as a team, sharing the ring as equals. Even if we're on the same side - we ain't on the same side - get it?
But I'll fight ten, twenty - fuck it, a hundred fucking men on my own. With nobody else to blame but me for a mistake well - there's nobody else to blame. And that's how I like it - all of me against whatever's in my fucking way. And for the second time I've been put in a three way dance. But this time instead of giving me two fellow American to paint the canvas with, I get two Russians.
Which really means the only thing that has changed is the order of the fucking colors on the flag.
Supposedly, Irina Sokolov is into that hardcore shit. That heavy, blood soaked leave-a-piece-of-yourself-behind-but-even-more-pieces-of-your-opponent-shit. Supposedly though, that's the key word. The background on her is slim fuckin' pickens, not that I'm much the type to go around snooping like a detective anyway. But it's the shit I see a lot, y'know? Young spunky and with everything to prove - tell everybody you can handle the biggest and baddest, the bloodiest beatdowns. Candle in the fucking wind shit, and you know what usually happens? I'm the hurricane that rolls up and snuffs that shit out. Best case scenario is that's what happens here - I arrive fuck her shit to kingdom come and walk right back out. But it could go so much worse - who knows, this might be a hospital visit or a killed career. That's jsut the risk you take when you step in the ring with me though, I don't care enough to think about the consequences of my actions for you. You're the 'Bird of Prey' but I'm not some fucking squirrel or rabbit you can swoop down on for an easy meal. Nah sister, I'm the guy in camo with a twelve gauge lining up his shot while you flap around and waste time. So know this Irina, you better be more than a sparrow pretening to be an eagle or I'll clip those wings, permanently.
Now Aren Mstistlav is apparently the opposite. Some sort of homecoming hero - not to this company of course but he's apparently recently come back from some big hiatus from the business. He 'got bored'. He 'missed being on top'. He calls himself the Monarch so I bet he thinks he's come back to 'reclaim his kingdom'. Let's not beat around the bush - we're all heard this fucking story before. The returning champion, the conqueror who conveniently isn't returning to the place he supposedly made this big name for himself but instead somewhere totally different, come to 'grace' this new frontier of the sport with his presence and prove once again that he's the be-all-end-all of this business. You know what kind of people claim this shit? People who were shit, always shit - left their 'home' when everyone found out how shit they were and were never ever as good as they hyped themselves up to be. it's why they go to some new place and not 'home', it's why they sell themselves so damn hard. Because nobody here knows how much of a hack and a fraud they are yet.
Am I wrong, Aren? Then prove it. Get in the ring and show me that there really is something to this 'big returning legend' shit. Get in the ring and show me that you really are good enough to just decide to come back one day because you were bored. Matter of fact, get in the fucking ring with me and earn that Monarch's crown. Because until you do, to me you're just gonna be one more piss-ant poser who thinks he's good enough to be wrestling royalty.
I wipe my ass with guys like that 'Aren Mstistlav'. So if that's all you're gonna bring? maybe ask for your release and save me the trouble.
I may not play well with others, I may not to teams and I definitely don't fucking babysit - but situations like this? I thrive, I fucking excel. I don't care how many people you put me against - I'll murder every single one of these lousy stupid bastards until there's nobody left standing in my way. I'm on the fucking blood path, everything else that comes as a result of that - records, belts, acclaim? It's just bonus content to me.
I don't care if I'm the guy you respect in the locker room. But I will be the motherfucker that you fear.
I'm the solo act, and it's on the rest of you to adapt before the curtain call.