Post by Deleted on Sept 6, 2012 23:18:36 GMT -5
You know that guy you saw out in that ring on the latest edition of Step-Up? That guy named Tony McNail? Well I'll tell you this, he is not a proper representation of what goes on in this mind.
Anthony McNair is sitting inside a dark room. It is the basement of he and Lacey's appartment building. The room is very dim as the only source of light is a solitary bare bulb jutting out crookedly from the back wall. Anthony is sitting on a gray folding chair dressed, oddly, in his mat shoes, solid black kickpads, and black gym shorts. The straps of a solid black singlet can be seen hanging out from the tops of his shorts leaving his chest bare.
On his chest a tattoo placed on his right pectoral can be seen. It is a warped hourglass that bends around the far side of the right side of his chest. Only the bottom of the hourglass is filled and intricate Victorian scroll work surrounds it, covering the rest of his right pectoral. Anthony is sitting with his head down and his hands are clasped between his knees. A heavy sigh releases from his kouth and he looks up.
There is a great deal more about the man seated before you than you will ever know. Do you know what it is like to be held down wherever you go? No. You probably don't. You probably don't even know who the hell I'm talking at right now. I am talking soley to the Millenium Pro Wrestling board of directors. I am not talking to my talentless opponent, Ricky Kimmel, and I'm definitely not speaking at any kind of fan. The fans will enjoy what I do no matter what. I am talking to the old, fat and completely idiotic members of the board of directors.
As he begins to insult the members of the board, Anthony grows angry. His speech slows down and his tone gains a small ounce of added bass. He stands from his chair and places his hands on his hips. He stares at the floor again for a second and then sighs. Calmly, he turns and collapses his chair. Holding it in his hand, Anthony walks slowly over to a nearby washing machine. He now stares at this for a moment before letting loose on it with the chair.
He brings the chair down multile times on the white painted metal surface of the machine. The loud metalic thuds ring out loudly in the small room. THe washer becomes dented beyond repair and one side falls off. Not satisfied, Anthony tosses the chair and begins to pull on the washer's lid, snapping it off. He then begins to slam his own head into the now detached lid before finally casting it aside. He truns back around and now a thick streak of fresh, flowing blood is sliding down the center of his face. Oddly, he now has a wide and wild smile on his face. He now speaks louder and at a frantic pace.
That feels SO much BETTER! There is nothing that eases the frustration of this world quite like pain does. Now! Where was I? Ah yes! The fucking board of directors. I want all of you fat pieces of shit to look at me because I know you all watch fucking EVERYTHING that comes acorss your desks. Even if after you watch a perfectly good talent you STILL choose to ignore it! How can you possibly sleep at night knowing you continually cost me the place in this world I RIGHTFULLY deserve? I'm guessing atop a massive stack of dirty money.
Anthony walks to the back of the room where he tossed his chair and picks it back up. He then slams it back down where it once was and seats himself. He then looks staright ahead and jams his left index finger into his tatoo.
Do you see this? This is something I had permanately drawn onto my body as a reminder of how I should never, and I mean NEVER, begin to cease my blazing hatred for anyone and anything corporately related to the professional wrestling business. Itis an hoourglass that has been warped by the weight of the world pushing down on it. It is only half filled due to that is how I've always seen my career. Sitting solemnly at the bottom. WELL GUESS WHAT?! That shall no longer be the case. As I am now dedicating myself to doing whatever I have to do to WHOEVER I have to do it to in order to be noticed.
With a scream of pure rage, Anthony stands agian and lifts the unflded chair high above his head and slams it down on it's legs, shatter it into pieces. He then wipes at his face, coming back with a palmfull of blood that he uses as a hair gel of sorts. He then falls to his knees and scoots very close. His face takes up most of the view.
Kimmel, I feel oh so sorry for you. You are yet another victim of the corporate wrestling machine. For you see, in order for me to move ahead, I must beat you within an inch of death. I honestly can not guarentee that with the state of mind that I now find myself in that you will be able to walk staright after our match. I will drive your fucking skull deep into the mat until I hear your teeth snap. I will bend your arms behind your back so far you will be able to scratch your nuts. I will do what I have to do in order to push myself further and further, steping over your mangled corpse in the process. And in the end, you won't blame me. You will blame MPW.
Anthony stares dead ahead with a slight twitch to his eyelids and the blood still pouring down his face and smears on his cheeks. Just before things begin to fade out to balc, a sick, bloody smile snaps onto his face as he falls back into an indian style posisiton, lookingupt to the cieleing and rocking back and forth like a child.
Anthony McNair is sitting inside a dark room. It is the basement of he and Lacey's appartment building. The room is very dim as the only source of light is a solitary bare bulb jutting out crookedly from the back wall. Anthony is sitting on a gray folding chair dressed, oddly, in his mat shoes, solid black kickpads, and black gym shorts. The straps of a solid black singlet can be seen hanging out from the tops of his shorts leaving his chest bare.
On his chest a tattoo placed on his right pectoral can be seen. It is a warped hourglass that bends around the far side of the right side of his chest. Only the bottom of the hourglass is filled and intricate Victorian scroll work surrounds it, covering the rest of his right pectoral. Anthony is sitting with his head down and his hands are clasped between his knees. A heavy sigh releases from his kouth and he looks up.
There is a great deal more about the man seated before you than you will ever know. Do you know what it is like to be held down wherever you go? No. You probably don't. You probably don't even know who the hell I'm talking at right now. I am talking soley to the Millenium Pro Wrestling board of directors. I am not talking to my talentless opponent, Ricky Kimmel, and I'm definitely not speaking at any kind of fan. The fans will enjoy what I do no matter what. I am talking to the old, fat and completely idiotic members of the board of directors.
As he begins to insult the members of the board, Anthony grows angry. His speech slows down and his tone gains a small ounce of added bass. He stands from his chair and places his hands on his hips. He stares at the floor again for a second and then sighs. Calmly, he turns and collapses his chair. Holding it in his hand, Anthony walks slowly over to a nearby washing machine. He now stares at this for a moment before letting loose on it with the chair.
He brings the chair down multile times on the white painted metal surface of the machine. The loud metalic thuds ring out loudly in the small room. THe washer becomes dented beyond repair and one side falls off. Not satisfied, Anthony tosses the chair and begins to pull on the washer's lid, snapping it off. He then begins to slam his own head into the now detached lid before finally casting it aside. He truns back around and now a thick streak of fresh, flowing blood is sliding down the center of his face. Oddly, he now has a wide and wild smile on his face. He now speaks louder and at a frantic pace.
That feels SO much BETTER! There is nothing that eases the frustration of this world quite like pain does. Now! Where was I? Ah yes! The fucking board of directors. I want all of you fat pieces of shit to look at me because I know you all watch fucking EVERYTHING that comes acorss your desks. Even if after you watch a perfectly good talent you STILL choose to ignore it! How can you possibly sleep at night knowing you continually cost me the place in this world I RIGHTFULLY deserve? I'm guessing atop a massive stack of dirty money.
Anthony walks to the back of the room where he tossed his chair and picks it back up. He then slams it back down where it once was and seats himself. He then looks staright ahead and jams his left index finger into his tatoo.
Do you see this? This is something I had permanately drawn onto my body as a reminder of how I should never, and I mean NEVER, begin to cease my blazing hatred for anyone and anything corporately related to the professional wrestling business. Itis an hoourglass that has been warped by the weight of the world pushing down on it. It is only half filled due to that is how I've always seen my career. Sitting solemnly at the bottom. WELL GUESS WHAT?! That shall no longer be the case. As I am now dedicating myself to doing whatever I have to do to WHOEVER I have to do it to in order to be noticed.
With a scream of pure rage, Anthony stands agian and lifts the unflded chair high above his head and slams it down on it's legs, shatter it into pieces. He then wipes at his face, coming back with a palmfull of blood that he uses as a hair gel of sorts. He then falls to his knees and scoots very close. His face takes up most of the view.
Kimmel, I feel oh so sorry for you. You are yet another victim of the corporate wrestling machine. For you see, in order for me to move ahead, I must beat you within an inch of death. I honestly can not guarentee that with the state of mind that I now find myself in that you will be able to walk staright after our match. I will drive your fucking skull deep into the mat until I hear your teeth snap. I will bend your arms behind your back so far you will be able to scratch your nuts. I will do what I have to do in order to push myself further and further, steping over your mangled corpse in the process. And in the end, you won't blame me. You will blame MPW.
Anthony stares dead ahead with a slight twitch to his eyelids and the blood still pouring down his face and smears on his cheeks. Just before things begin to fade out to balc, a sick, bloody smile snaps onto his face as he falls back into an indian style posisiton, lookingupt to the cieleing and rocking back and forth like a child.