Post by Jack Owyns on Nov 24, 2014 17:02:35 GMT
The footage is shaky as it goes live to the viewers. Jack fiddles with the video recorder as he attempts to mount it on the dashboard of his car while trying to drive it. Jack looks no better than he did in his previous blogs as it's evident he had been drinking and under the influence of another illegal substance.
THUMP!
"DAMIAN! FUCKIN' DAMIAN! You... YOU, I can say, are not a smart man. NOPE. You, Damian, are one stupid motherfucker, yeah. See, you made it personal, costing me my match against Liz Smalls. You made it personal, sticking your nose in my business, BUT Jack, you cost DAMIAN his match, his match against Angelina Bellini. I fuckin' did, YES. BUT, that was different. Totally different. My reasoning was business related, CASH fuckin' involved, yours was not that, oh no, YOURS was payback. You should've left it alone, but YOU did not. NOW, you, Damian, will suffer the consequence of your actions."
THUMP!
"Damian, I don't give two shits about your oh-so-fuckin'-impressive submission skills. What do you think this is? MMA, where two fuckin' dudes lie on top of each other, grinding against one and another on the fuckin' canvas floor... Dick to face, dick to ass, dick to dick? FUCK NO, this is WRESTLING. Watch the fuckin' tapes, look back... EVERY match. Guess what? The match takes place on your feet. Submission? That's the fuckin' least of my god damn worries. What, you fuckin' think you're going to get me in a SENSE'S FAIL, and Vlad's just going to stand on the outside apron, and twiddle his fuckin' fingers and do NOTHING!"
THUMP!
Jack switched his eyes off the camera, and onto the road. From the noise of the car and wheels, it sounded like Jack was drifting around a corner.
"Another fuckin' thing Damian. Submission; the only logical way to achieve a submission victory is after the match has run its fuckin' course over all four competitors. When they are fuckin' tired and beat, and don't have the willpower to go on. Guess what? According to facts, statistics, and all that SHIT, Damian! You will grow tired before I will; your body will shut down before mine fuckin' does. That little bit of strength you have, gone; out the fuckin' window... Dude, you focus all your effort on fuckin' submission, and you fuckin' neglect other areas that could make you fuckin' successful."
THUMP!
"But I guess I should fuckin' tell you why I will win? 'Cause that's the whole fuckin' point of this, RIGHT!? Tell you my game plan and let you fuckin' walk right into it, eh? I will beat you with my fuckin' strength, slamming you to the canvas, like it's on fuckin' loop. Eating away at the cardio you have that is sub-par. Beating you with my speed, as by the time you punch me once, I'd already have fuckin' hit you three times, maybe fours. My speed and your lack of in ring intelligence will be another of your downfalls. Try scouting somebody's moves, when their reaction time is far greater than yours. And..."
Jack lay on the horn of his car.
"FUCKIN' WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKIN' GOING!"
THUMP!
"AND, Damian I heard, or should I say, I read, that Marty Sunshine has a negative effect on you. Guess what? I have a feeling, and this being a main event and being such a high-stakes match, another stat you fuckin' lack; how will Marty Sunshine's ringside affect you? OH, and hey, JULIA, I got a shit load of fuckin' gossip, if you'd like to do fuckin' tea, I'd LOVE to fuckin' share. Bring Max, 'cause do I have fuckin' some stories for him."
Jack reaches off screen and comes back with a cigarette. He lights it and leaves it dangling in his mouth, putting both hands back on the wheel.
"Fuck I'm bored. And don't worry GIDEON, I haven't forgotten about you... you're next."
Jack punches the video recorder, turning it off the old fashion way, with brute force
