Pour One Out for the Fallen (Nobody Memorial Show RP)
Feb 25, 2024 18:51:44 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, Dave D-Flipz, and 1 more like this
Post by The Dunne Deal on Feb 25, 2024 18:51:44 GMT -5
Joe Nobody sat alone at the worn-out bar, the only patron left in the establishment long after closing time. The neon signs that once flickered with life during bustling hours now cast a dim glow, creating a melancholic atmosphere. The room echoed with the faint hum of the cooling systems and the clinking of glasses being cleaned by the bartender who was ready to call it a night.
"Don't worry about me; the owner gave me the key. I'll be fine," Joe muttered to himself, the words barely audible over the soft jazz playing in the background. He nursed a glass of whiskey, its amber liquid reflecting the dim lights.
His face was illuminated by the neon signs, revealing the weariness etched into his features. There was a sense of exhaustion in his eyes, a heaviness that transcended the physical weariness of the late hour. The bar, once a haven of laughter and camaraderie, now felt like a lonely sanctuary for Joe to drown his thoughts.
"I just needed a drink. Needed something to take my mind off everything that's happened," he sighed, his breath momentarily fogging the glass.
The air hung heavy with a mix of sorrow and frustration, encapsulating the somber moment in time. The wrestling community had recently suffered significant losses, and Joe was grappling with the weight of those departures.
"D***, why is this so hard?" Joe's voice carried a hint of anguish, a question directed at the universe, seeking answers that seemed elusive.
He took a sip from his glass, the warmth of the whiskey momentarily providing solace from the emotional storm within. The liquid burned down his throat, a temporary distraction from the sea of thoughts crashing against the shores of his mind.
"It shouldn't be this hard. I want to speak, not just to Esmeralda but to everyone," Joe continued, his words becoming a quiet declaration in the empty bar. His gaze wandered across the space, as if searching for invisible listeners. "I just want to talk, and I want people to listen."
The wrestling ring had been a canvas for the stories of triumph and defeat, but now it carried the weight of loss. The absence of familiar faces, respected peers, and the camaraderie that defined the community left an indelible void.
"It doesn't feel right, you know?" Joe's voice gained intensity, breaking through the hushed ambiance. "Losing our friends, our respected peers, before any of us are ready to say goodbye."
The wrestling world was more than scripted battles and theatrical personas; it was a brotherhood, a family bound by the shared passion for the sport. The loss was not just the absence of talent; it was the silence left by the voices no longer echoing through locker rooms and arenas.
"It's not just the loss of talent. Gimmicks, they're a dime a dozen. You can tweak them, replace them, make a new one. But it's the men behind the gimmick, the men behind the character that make it who and what it is," Joe reflected, his words hanging in the air like a poignant truth.
He leaned back, the worn barstool creaking beneath him, and his eyes fixated on a distant point, lost in memories of those who had left an indelible mark on the wrestling world.
"I don't want to bad mouth my opponents, especially not in a creepy way," Joe continued, his tone shifting to a more reflective cadence. "But there's animosity between some of us. Fine, whatever. But this, this isn't about titles or storylines. It's about paying attention to those we've lost."
The dimly lit bar became a confessional, a place for Joe to pour out his thoughts and frustrations. The pain, still raw and unhealed, resonated in his words.
"The pain is real, fresh in our hearts and minds. Our job is to go out there and give them a show they'd be proud of," he declared, his gaze piercing through the emptiness of the bar.
Joe took another sip, the amber liquid reflecting the neon lights, and the room fell into a contemplative silence. The wrestling ring was a stage for storytelling, but tonight, Joe wanted the narrative to transcend personal rivalries and scripted conflicts.
"I remember Tommy Strychnine and Vodka Fizz, the greatness that was Steve Awesome their passion, their impact," Joe recalled, a fondness in his voice. "And then there's Monroe, Travis Monroe, part of The Sanctuary over at SCCW. He called me, and there was a hesitation, a delay. He said that the locker room of SCCW felt dead without Cliff, Johnny Rotten, and Jayson Matthews running around like a squirrel monkey on crack, as he put it."
He paused, the weight of the memories settling on his shoulders like an unspoken burden.
"It finally hit him. Our friends are gone. Men we worked with, respected. Even if we hadn't worked together, there was still that respect. They're gone," Joe admitted, his voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and acceptance.
The atmosphere in the bar had become a tapestry of emotions, woven with threads of grief, nostalgia, and a determination to honor the fallen. Joe's solitary presence, surrounded by the echoes of the past, embodied the collective sentiment of a community grappling with loss.
"From the beaches of Daytona to the bayous of Louisiana, from the Motor City to the rest of the world. I raise this glass one last time for the fallen," Joe solemnly toasted, his words lingering in the still air. "May you bless us wherever you may be now. I'll see you soon, my friends, but not too soon. And when my time comes, I hope you'll be waiting at the Pearly Gates, pulling them open, saying, 'Welcome to Paradise.'"
"Don't worry about me; the owner gave me the key. I'll be fine," Joe muttered to himself, the words barely audible over the soft jazz playing in the background. He nursed a glass of whiskey, its amber liquid reflecting the dim lights.
His face was illuminated by the neon signs, revealing the weariness etched into his features. There was a sense of exhaustion in his eyes, a heaviness that transcended the physical weariness of the late hour. The bar, once a haven of laughter and camaraderie, now felt like a lonely sanctuary for Joe to drown his thoughts.
"I just needed a drink. Needed something to take my mind off everything that's happened," he sighed, his breath momentarily fogging the glass.
The air hung heavy with a mix of sorrow and frustration, encapsulating the somber moment in time. The wrestling community had recently suffered significant losses, and Joe was grappling with the weight of those departures.
"D***, why is this so hard?" Joe's voice carried a hint of anguish, a question directed at the universe, seeking answers that seemed elusive.
He took a sip from his glass, the warmth of the whiskey momentarily providing solace from the emotional storm within. The liquid burned down his throat, a temporary distraction from the sea of thoughts crashing against the shores of his mind.
"It shouldn't be this hard. I want to speak, not just to Esmeralda but to everyone," Joe continued, his words becoming a quiet declaration in the empty bar. His gaze wandered across the space, as if searching for invisible listeners. "I just want to talk, and I want people to listen."
The wrestling ring had been a canvas for the stories of triumph and defeat, but now it carried the weight of loss. The absence of familiar faces, respected peers, and the camaraderie that defined the community left an indelible void.
"It doesn't feel right, you know?" Joe's voice gained intensity, breaking through the hushed ambiance. "Losing our friends, our respected peers, before any of us are ready to say goodbye."
The wrestling world was more than scripted battles and theatrical personas; it was a brotherhood, a family bound by the shared passion for the sport. The loss was not just the absence of talent; it was the silence left by the voices no longer echoing through locker rooms and arenas.
"It's not just the loss of talent. Gimmicks, they're a dime a dozen. You can tweak them, replace them, make a new one. But it's the men behind the gimmick, the men behind the character that make it who and what it is," Joe reflected, his words hanging in the air like a poignant truth.
He leaned back, the worn barstool creaking beneath him, and his eyes fixated on a distant point, lost in memories of those who had left an indelible mark on the wrestling world.
"I don't want to bad mouth my opponents, especially not in a creepy way," Joe continued, his tone shifting to a more reflective cadence. "But there's animosity between some of us. Fine, whatever. But this, this isn't about titles or storylines. It's about paying attention to those we've lost."
The dimly lit bar became a confessional, a place for Joe to pour out his thoughts and frustrations. The pain, still raw and unhealed, resonated in his words.
"The pain is real, fresh in our hearts and minds. Our job is to go out there and give them a show they'd be proud of," he declared, his gaze piercing through the emptiness of the bar.
Joe took another sip, the amber liquid reflecting the neon lights, and the room fell into a contemplative silence. The wrestling ring was a stage for storytelling, but tonight, Joe wanted the narrative to transcend personal rivalries and scripted conflicts.
"I remember Tommy Strychnine and Vodka Fizz, the greatness that was Steve Awesome their passion, their impact," Joe recalled, a fondness in his voice. "And then there's Monroe, Travis Monroe, part of The Sanctuary over at SCCW. He called me, and there was a hesitation, a delay. He said that the locker room of SCCW felt dead without Cliff, Johnny Rotten, and Jayson Matthews running around like a squirrel monkey on crack, as he put it."
He paused, the weight of the memories settling on his shoulders like an unspoken burden.
"It finally hit him. Our friends are gone. Men we worked with, respected. Even if we hadn't worked together, there was still that respect. They're gone," Joe admitted, his voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and acceptance.
The atmosphere in the bar had become a tapestry of emotions, woven with threads of grief, nostalgia, and a determination to honor the fallen. Joe's solitary presence, surrounded by the echoes of the past, embodied the collective sentiment of a community grappling with loss.
"From the beaches of Daytona to the bayous of Louisiana, from the Motor City to the rest of the world. I raise this glass one last time for the fallen," Joe solemnly toasted, his words lingering in the still air. "May you bless us wherever you may be now. I'll see you soon, my friends, but not too soon. And when my time comes, I hope you'll be waiting at the Pearly Gates, pulling them open, saying, 'Welcome to Paradise.'"
