Post by Jack Owyns on Dec 6, 2014 0:44:41 GMT
The footage went live, broadcasting MetroPRO own Jack Owyns standing only in a pair of white briefs and still sporting the familiar look that the followers of MetroPRO had begun to grow accustomed to. He stumbled forward and then backwards, before finally making his way over toward a chair he had situated in front of the camera. His first attempt could be considered a failed attempt as he tripped over the chair and disappeared off the camera view.
“Fuck!”
His hand appeared on-screen, followed by his other as he used the desk to pull himself up and push himself backwards, falling back onto the chair.
“You know what?” His words were slurred as he fought to try to keep his eyes open. “Warren and Lora Shaw. I have something… to tell you. And it goes, like this… Fuck you, and of course… you. I… am not… no joke! Who cares what my record, my record, in some previous shit wrestling promotion was, you know? Records mean nothing. Do you really, like seriously think a record actually defines somebody? No, no, no, records mean nothing. Slap that shit in my face, like it means something. But you lost, to him, her, him, and her blah-blah-fuckin’ blah! So what? Do you think…?”
Jack reaches in front of the camera, digging through a pile of papers.
“Where is it? Nope… Nope… ah, nope… there it fuckin’ is. Did you know…? DID YOU!? The NHL president trophy, which is awarded to the NHL team with the best fuckin’ record. THE BEST RECORD! In the last… twenty fuckin’ years, only six teams have gone on to win the Stanley cup after they had captured the president trophy, which MEANS, 14 teams without the best records beat the team with the BEST record. OR, what about… 2012, the Baltimore Ravens won the fuckin’ Super Bowl. Fuck, shit, they didn’t have the best RECORD either. HOLY FUCK, mind blown, RECORDS mean nothing.”
Jack crumples up the piece of paper and drops it.
“But WHATEVER, who cares, right? ‘Cause obviously, my opponents don’t even want to be here anyways. NO, they are too fuckin’ focused on LORA SHAW’s musical career, that musical hack. Like seriously… why the fuck are you even here, huh? These people don’t give two shits about what we do. Their minds aren’t fuckin’ even here, and they think they should be MetroPRO tag team champions. WHY? Why the fuck do you even deserve it, if you don’t even want to be here in the first place? YOU… people make a mockery out of our fuckin’ business. YES, a mockery. GO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. I’M TIRED, I FUCKIN’ HATE PEOPLE LIKE YOU.”
Jack reaches and pulls a baggy out.
“What happened to all the people that want a fuckin’ war, huh? I WANT A FUCKIN’ WAR! You know, all I want, ALL that I crave for, is a fuckin’ WAR, plain and simple. Nothing else… I don’t give a fuck about championships, I don’t give a fuck about being the face of this company. I don’t fuckin’ care about the SPOTLIGHT. I couldn't give two shits if people like me or not. AND, I don’t care about what’s happening with TEAM MORT or TEAM MARTY. I don’t care if every second word that leaves my mouth is some swear word. I don’t care what any of you think of me. I don’t care if I win or lose… I JUST DON’T GIVE A SHIT.”
“What I do care about… what matters to me the most. All I strive for is to go down to THAT ring, hear that fuckin’ bell ring, and just go to fuckin’ WAR. Battle like it may be my last. The fuckin’ EPIC ending battle. But here…”
Jack finally opens the bag.
“JACK, NO!” Holli screams off camera.
The footage cuts out.
The footage returns, but Jack is no longer there; instead, he is replaced by his agent, Oddball.
“Sorry, I apologize for my client's actions. He’s been having some… let’s call them issues... lately, and he is getting some well-deserved rest, as we speak, this very moment, so I feel that it is in his best interest for me to continue this segment in his place. So, let’s begin… Looking at those statistics, we can easily break down why my client and his partner Vlad have the advantage in the upcoming tag team match against Lora and Warren Shaw. Let’s start with Strength—“
“What are you doing?” A voice interrupts off-screen.
Oddball looks like a deer in headlights. “Jack?”
“You… you doing my motherfuckin’ promo, huh?”
“I... I… I…”
Jack tackles Oddball as the footage shuts off.
“Fuck!”
His hand appeared on-screen, followed by his other as he used the desk to pull himself up and push himself backwards, falling back onto the chair.
“You know what?” His words were slurred as he fought to try to keep his eyes open. “Warren and Lora Shaw. I have something… to tell you. And it goes, like this… Fuck you, and of course… you. I… am not… no joke! Who cares what my record, my record, in some previous shit wrestling promotion was, you know? Records mean nothing. Do you really, like seriously think a record actually defines somebody? No, no, no, records mean nothing. Slap that shit in my face, like it means something. But you lost, to him, her, him, and her blah-blah-fuckin’ blah! So what? Do you think…?”
Jack reaches in front of the camera, digging through a pile of papers.
“Where is it? Nope… Nope… ah, nope… there it fuckin’ is. Did you know…? DID YOU!? The NHL president trophy, which is awarded to the NHL team with the best fuckin’ record. THE BEST RECORD! In the last… twenty fuckin’ years, only six teams have gone on to win the Stanley cup after they had captured the president trophy, which MEANS, 14 teams without the best records beat the team with the BEST record. OR, what about… 2012, the Baltimore Ravens won the fuckin’ Super Bowl. Fuck, shit, they didn’t have the best RECORD either. HOLY FUCK, mind blown, RECORDS mean nothing.”
Jack crumples up the piece of paper and drops it.
“But WHATEVER, who cares, right? ‘Cause obviously, my opponents don’t even want to be here anyways. NO, they are too fuckin’ focused on LORA SHAW’s musical career, that musical hack. Like seriously… why the fuck are you even here, huh? These people don’t give two shits about what we do. Their minds aren’t fuckin’ even here, and they think they should be MetroPRO tag team champions. WHY? Why the fuck do you even deserve it, if you don’t even want to be here in the first place? YOU… people make a mockery out of our fuckin’ business. YES, a mockery. GO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. I’M TIRED, I FUCKIN’ HATE PEOPLE LIKE YOU.”
Jack reaches and pulls a baggy out.
“What happened to all the people that want a fuckin’ war, huh? I WANT A FUCKIN’ WAR! You know, all I want, ALL that I crave for, is a fuckin’ WAR, plain and simple. Nothing else… I don’t give a fuck about championships, I don’t give a fuck about being the face of this company. I don’t fuckin’ care about the SPOTLIGHT. I couldn't give two shits if people like me or not. AND, I don’t care about what’s happening with TEAM MORT or TEAM MARTY. I don’t care if every second word that leaves my mouth is some swear word. I don’t care what any of you think of me. I don’t care if I win or lose… I JUST DON’T GIVE A SHIT.”
“What I do care about… what matters to me the most. All I strive for is to go down to THAT ring, hear that fuckin’ bell ring, and just go to fuckin’ WAR. Battle like it may be my last. The fuckin’ EPIC ending battle. But here…”
Jack finally opens the bag.
“JACK, NO!” Holli screams off camera.
The footage cuts out.
The footage returns, but Jack is no longer there; instead, he is replaced by his agent, Oddball.
“Sorry, I apologize for my client's actions. He’s been having some… let’s call them issues... lately, and he is getting some well-deserved rest, as we speak, this very moment, so I feel that it is in his best interest for me to continue this segment in his place. So, let’s begin… Looking at those statistics, we can easily break down why my client and his partner Vlad have the advantage in the upcoming tag team match against Lora and Warren Shaw. Let’s start with Strength—“
“What are you doing?” A voice interrupts off-screen.
Oddball looks like a deer in headlights. “Jack?”
“You… you doing my motherfuckin’ promo, huh?”
“I... I… I…”
Jack tackles Oddball as the footage shuts off.
