Post by styles on Aug 25, 2012 14:17:13 GMT -5
(The sky is yellow above the Vegas skyline tonight, the clouds rolled in during the day and the light of the Palms hotel is reflecting like a pool of molten lava. Tonight is different than most. The camera is usually stationary, but today, it rolls along, through the crowds in front of the grand fountains. It turns and fights through the crowds on the strip, then turns again, then again, to the famous Caesar's Palace. The hotel is grand, richly decorated and worthy of comparison to the home where the leaders of Rome would sleep. The camera shot moves easily through the gamblers and those who gamble and those who overpay for decadent luxury if it is combined with a good night's sleep. An unmarked door opens, and down a hallway and out a door marked "EXIT"...there, we find him, 6'3" of muscle and, tonight, fury.)
What is going on here? Can somebody tell me? I am not talking about wrestling Jeff Mouland or defeating veteran after veteran with the ease of a child knocking over a sandcastle at the beach. I am talking about what I just saw on ajc.com.
(Freddie swings his foot toward a trash can, the side of it caves in without much more than a burping sound.)
I turned on my computer and there was a black man getting beaten down by the police in Marietta, once again. Didn't something like this cause a riot last time, didn't our illustrious civil rights leaders show up and start boycotting everything they could find? Hell yeah they did. And I suspect that they will again.
Once again, the city will be called a racist city. Once again The Great Jesse Jackson and those of his ilk will threaten the city with lawsuits and race riots. And once again, twice again, three times and again and again, we will see a man dying as he struggles with the police, those racists, those scum, those...those men who did exactly what they needed to do.
In life, there is a theory of self-preservation, and it goes something like this: When faced with danger, you will run or you will battle, fight or flight is what they call it, and it definitely applies here. Here is this man, cracked up out of his mind, he clotheslines a police officer who is trying to help him. Then he starts to go on a rampage, so the police officers try to subdue him, try to be compassionate and not whack him in the head, because they know they'll be sued if they do. The fight continues, this man keeps getting up, against the orders of the police, against the prayers of those who are watching. He fights and fights until his body can no longer fight, his heart, poisoned with Crack and Crystal Meth, finally stops.
The press call for police heads, the race-baiting pieces of trash who call themselves black activists call for their heads. The one thing they fail to mention is that if the man had stayed down, he wouldn't have been hit again and again.
They will mention Rodney King, and how this is the same, but they will fail to mention why. It is the same because Rodney King was all drugged up when he was beaten down, and he wouldn't stay down either.
The bleeding hearts will call for some way to make a man submit before his body does. And that will be this week.
What does this have to do with my match against Jeff Mouland? Why am I wasting the time of the viewing public in the way that Jeff would, were he able to get off his ass and actually speak to the public this week?
I am not wasting time.
This is not a political commentary.
This is a preview of next week in MPW.
Just last week, Jeff Mouland, once an exciting and in-shape professional wrestler. From the tapes, you wouldn't know that this was the same man, and whether or not he won of lost, he was still just a shell of what he used to be...or should I say, an ego trip, wrapped around what he used to be.
Once, he was thought of as beautiful to watch, intriguing and exciting, now, he is a parody of what he was, struggling to complete the moves in his repertoire because he can't get up with that ego. Extra high didn't help a man to survive on the streets of Hoover, does he think it will help him survive in the ring, with Mr. fXs?
You are looking at the powerhouse with the finesse to leave Jeff Mouland depressed, more blue than when Walgreen's ran out of the $1.99 half-gallons of Rocky Road and the French Vanilla Cool Whip.
Now, Jeff will pull out another one of his hometown friends and tell him, "Man (insert name here) that Styles guy doesn't know what he's talking about, because me on my worst day is miles better than him on his best, or some garbage like that
Well, fantasy is a good thing, but not a great thing.
This MNME, the people at home will be shouting at their televisions, the people at ringside screaming for mercy because of the overwhelming empathy they have, they'll look and they'll think that they are seeing a mob tearing a man to shreds, because of the violence of it all. The people will be shouting "Stay down, stay down!" But their cries will fall on deaf ears, because there will be too much pride running through your battered body, Jeff. They will want you to just lie down and accept defeat, accept the 1-2-3, but you won't, because you've got ego, one that won't let you quit, won't let you go out like that.
Then, just as they think you are about to come back, I'll slap the Addiction on you. The pain will be worse than anything you can imagine, and you won't escape. Your heart will stop supplying blood to your brain, and everything will go black. There'll be noone to save you. Nobody to plead to that your enlarged heart, I mean ego, should have gotten you the win. And when the ref taps me on the shoulder to tell me that the match is over, I'll stand above your limp body.
Children will cry as mothers hide their eyes.
Husbands will sit still, staring, too stunned to reach for the remote control.
A funeral home will start preparing a package deal for your family.
I will leave the ring, the victory in my possession, to prepare for next week.
Only then, when the hushed crowd is beginning to speak again, will your body begin to twitch, the blood rushing back to your brain.
You won't remember what happened, but hopefully, you'll still be able to summon your memory of this interview, so it will trickle into your conscious mind, so you'll remember my words of now. That way, when you watch the match, the ending will be familiar, if not remembered.
(Freddie turns and starts to walk away, but his words can be heard.)
It is said that gamblers whose winnings disappear in Las Vegas often say, "Life is hard on the strip." But they're wrong. Freddie Styles is hard on life, your life this week, Jeff Mouland.
(Freddie opens the driver's side door of his black Navigator. His brake lights flash, his car turns and he is gone.)
end...
What is going on here? Can somebody tell me? I am not talking about wrestling Jeff Mouland or defeating veteran after veteran with the ease of a child knocking over a sandcastle at the beach. I am talking about what I just saw on ajc.com.
(Freddie swings his foot toward a trash can, the side of it caves in without much more than a burping sound.)
I turned on my computer and there was a black man getting beaten down by the police in Marietta, once again. Didn't something like this cause a riot last time, didn't our illustrious civil rights leaders show up and start boycotting everything they could find? Hell yeah they did. And I suspect that they will again.
Once again, the city will be called a racist city. Once again The Great Jesse Jackson and those of his ilk will threaten the city with lawsuits and race riots. And once again, twice again, three times and again and again, we will see a man dying as he struggles with the police, those racists, those scum, those...those men who did exactly what they needed to do.
In life, there is a theory of self-preservation, and it goes something like this: When faced with danger, you will run or you will battle, fight or flight is what they call it, and it definitely applies here. Here is this man, cracked up out of his mind, he clotheslines a police officer who is trying to help him. Then he starts to go on a rampage, so the police officers try to subdue him, try to be compassionate and not whack him in the head, because they know they'll be sued if they do. The fight continues, this man keeps getting up, against the orders of the police, against the prayers of those who are watching. He fights and fights until his body can no longer fight, his heart, poisoned with Crack and Crystal Meth, finally stops.
The press call for police heads, the race-baiting pieces of trash who call themselves black activists call for their heads. The one thing they fail to mention is that if the man had stayed down, he wouldn't have been hit again and again.
They will mention Rodney King, and how this is the same, but they will fail to mention why. It is the same because Rodney King was all drugged up when he was beaten down, and he wouldn't stay down either.
The bleeding hearts will call for some way to make a man submit before his body does. And that will be this week.
What does this have to do with my match against Jeff Mouland? Why am I wasting the time of the viewing public in the way that Jeff would, were he able to get off his ass and actually speak to the public this week?
I am not wasting time.
This is not a political commentary.
This is a preview of next week in MPW.
Just last week, Jeff Mouland, once an exciting and in-shape professional wrestler. From the tapes, you wouldn't know that this was the same man, and whether or not he won of lost, he was still just a shell of what he used to be...or should I say, an ego trip, wrapped around what he used to be.
Once, he was thought of as beautiful to watch, intriguing and exciting, now, he is a parody of what he was, struggling to complete the moves in his repertoire because he can't get up with that ego. Extra high didn't help a man to survive on the streets of Hoover, does he think it will help him survive in the ring, with Mr. fXs?
You are looking at the powerhouse with the finesse to leave Jeff Mouland depressed, more blue than when Walgreen's ran out of the $1.99 half-gallons of Rocky Road and the French Vanilla Cool Whip.
Now, Jeff will pull out another one of his hometown friends and tell him, "Man (insert name here) that Styles guy doesn't know what he's talking about, because me on my worst day is miles better than him on his best, or some garbage like that
Well, fantasy is a good thing, but not a great thing.
This MNME, the people at home will be shouting at their televisions, the people at ringside screaming for mercy because of the overwhelming empathy they have, they'll look and they'll think that they are seeing a mob tearing a man to shreds, because of the violence of it all. The people will be shouting "Stay down, stay down!" But their cries will fall on deaf ears, because there will be too much pride running through your battered body, Jeff. They will want you to just lie down and accept defeat, accept the 1-2-3, but you won't, because you've got ego, one that won't let you quit, won't let you go out like that.
Then, just as they think you are about to come back, I'll slap the Addiction on you. The pain will be worse than anything you can imagine, and you won't escape. Your heart will stop supplying blood to your brain, and everything will go black. There'll be noone to save you. Nobody to plead to that your enlarged heart, I mean ego, should have gotten you the win. And when the ref taps me on the shoulder to tell me that the match is over, I'll stand above your limp body.
Children will cry as mothers hide their eyes.
Husbands will sit still, staring, too stunned to reach for the remote control.
A funeral home will start preparing a package deal for your family.
I will leave the ring, the victory in my possession, to prepare for next week.
Only then, when the hushed crowd is beginning to speak again, will your body begin to twitch, the blood rushing back to your brain.
You won't remember what happened, but hopefully, you'll still be able to summon your memory of this interview, so it will trickle into your conscious mind, so you'll remember my words of now. That way, when you watch the match, the ending will be familiar, if not remembered.
(Freddie turns and starts to walk away, but his words can be heard.)
It is said that gamblers whose winnings disappear in Las Vegas often say, "Life is hard on the strip." But they're wrong. Freddie Styles is hard on life, your life this week, Jeff Mouland.
(Freddie opens the driver's side door of his black Navigator. His brake lights flash, his car turns and he is gone.)
end...