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| State of the Slaughter Address | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 15 2017, 07:25 PM (184 Views) | |
| Nurse Kinsley | Jun 15 2017, 07:25 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center] Late. Real late. You know those infomercials that run at like, 3 AM? The ones that talk about some product you've never heard about, with an incredibly niche application, but this exact program runs for the next three hours or so? That late. See, they can afford to run such a long infomercial because this late at night, there's not a lot of competition for air time. It also makes this a great time for, say, an up and coming wrestler to run a promo on a budget. Screeching static. The darkest corner of some seedy hotel. A thin woman, pale, a bandaged shoulder peeking out from beneath a tattered Rasputina T-shirt. The shadows conceal her face, the gaunt figure leaning back juuust enough to be masked by the blackness. Every once in a while, she takes a long, thoughtful drag from a cigarette, the blaze at the end lighting up her damaged lips. It's the closest the viewer ever gets to seeing her face, but her identity is hardly a mystery. Her dry, methodical tone is unmistakeable, as is the stained, white mask at the foot of the bed... a blood red medical cross plastered across the front of the chipped plastic. "Let me tell you a story. When I first started wrestling in Mexico, there WERE no titles. No belts. No gold. Not for me, not where I wrestled. There was survival and a paycheck, that's what I fought for. If I did everything, EVERYTHING I could, everything I could conceivably manage to do to physically MURDER my opponent, if I sated the bloodlust of maybe a couple dozen locals they would let me out of the FUCKING cage. That's the most I could aspire to. A handful of pesos... and to live another day. That's the most ambitious I was allowed to be, south of the border. Fast forward to my time in EWC. It was a dark, miserable fucking time and you couldn't drag me back. See, Mexico was bad. Hole-in-the-wall fight clubs in Tijuana were awful, but I knew where I stood. Barbed wire and C4 and pirhanas, that was a nightmare, but I knew what I meant to that crowd. I knew I was meat, nothing more and nothing less and there was a strange sort of comfort from knowing my place. EWC wasn't like that. EWC was politics. EWC was all about jerking you around, making you think you could be something when you couldn't. EWC was all about... building you up, stacking your hopes, making you want things that would NEVER so much as brush your god damn fingertips. They told me I could be anything, go anywhere. People talked about me online, people bought my T-shirts, people stood in that front row and they held signs for ME. They chanted... MY name. I main evented, week after week. I was the star of the god damn show. I didn't get a shot at the US title. I didn't get a shot... at the Hardcore title, or the International title, and they didn't even let me walk on the same carpet as the Undisputed champion. No, the only belt I won... was the X Division belt. It was a piddly belt with a distant history, retired and boomeranged back to replace a bigger, better title. They didn't want to give me a chance to win the real Hardcore championship. They didn't want me pissing on its legacy, so they brought back the X Division title. They didn't give me a shot, they didn't invite me, they didn't ask me... they held an open rumble. Anyone, literally any son of a bitch on that roster could have entered and competed for that belt. I entered, and I competed, and I won. I wasn't given a shot, I fucking took it. I stole it, and those miserable fucks did everything in their power to take that belt from me. They threw everything they could, every obstacle, every brutal, violent, soul destroying match and each time I grew stronger. Each horrific train wreck of a match that I walked away from, my legend grew. Every career I ended in some spectacle of suffering, my stock... rose. I held that belt until the day I left that piece of shit company. You know why? Because it's all I had. That weak novelty of a belt was the one morsel, the one crumb, that I managed to sneak out from underneath the company and I held onto that belt like it was everything because to ME, it WAS. It was my one crown, my one reward, my one symbol that I was a GOOD god damn wrestler! I could compete with anyone, I could beat the entire fucking locker room and I DID! I pinned some of their best guys, I RETIRED some of their LEGENDS, I stood head and shoulders above the people they WANTED in the main event! That belt was my proof, my proof that they couldn't control EVERYTHING, that there were still corners of the narrative left to the people. I stained that belt with my god damn blood. It was my crucible, my scarlet letter, my last shred of hope that I could stand against the tide! That I wouldn't always JUST be some carnival sideshow act, but that I could be respected, that I could be taken seriously, just as seriously as any other fucking competitor on the roster. This... isn't EWC. It's not. Far from it. EWC is a big, corporate shell, hollow and soulless, ancient and stuffed so far up its own ass that it can taste its own lungs. I stuck out there. Like an exposed nerve. Like a bad tattoo. I was a liability. I was a compromise. I was an unwanted, unwashed lump, a spreading cancer on the surface of their perfect porcelain mask and they fucking hated me for it. I was violent, and loud, and I refused to walk to their rhythm and that made me NONE of the things they wanted, NONE of the things they sought. They wanted me to take off my mask... and kiss the ring. I refused. Here... I am among my own." It starts slow. Subtle. A low chuckle, dyed red hair spilling over her face as her convulsing shape gives way to louder, crueller laughter. The shadows are perfect, casting just so across her face as to hide her visage. She breathes in deep, the corners of a sinister grin just barely peeking into view. "Sick, violent people. Sinners and beggars and jokers, all. We are the miserable many, brothers in arms in a war against our own bodies. Not since Mexico have I had to compete with other people to see who could have the most brutal, blood curdling, stomach turning match of the night but now every night is a new challenge. Every one of you grotesque monsters in the locker room, you're all gangrenous, off-putting filth and you're my FUCKING heroes for it. In EWC I was a pariah, a leper in the streets--in Slaughterhouse, I am home. I never knew such a place existed for me, but it's here, and I've found it. Home. So I want you to understand, Jen Stevens... I want you to focus. I want you to really take this in. I want you to understand what belts, what titles, what they mean to me. And I want you to understand... what Slaughterhouse Wrestling means to me. I had... my shot... and I took it. Injured shoulder, didn't care. I took a meathook through my fucking shoulder Jen and I shrugged it off, and I choked down more pills, because this was a TITLE SHOT and I wasn't going to blow it. I don't... just... walk away from things. I can pretend to be detached all I want but at the end of the day, I'm not. I care. I care about this company, I care about these people, and I cared about that FUCKING belt Jen and you didn't stop me, did you? No. Not you. You... you didn't do shit. You did nothing, you had me with my open wounds and my brittle bones and you you couldn't so much as SCRATCH the PAINTJOB, JEN YOU COULDN'T EVEN SLOW ME DOWN, JEN YOU COU̹̾͋̊ͭ̈ͪḺ̥̮̰ͨ̂̈́ͫ͒̈́D̼̀̈ͅͅN͓͓̬̹̪̆ͬ͆ͩ̋̓'̻̫̥̼́͌T̻ ̤̱̟ͣ̈́E͚̱̐̿̊͂V̒̋̂͒ͤ͂EN MAKE ME B͖̞̬̫ͭ̿̿͂L͔͚̩̼͚͈̬͎̥̬̖̦͔̠̍̄͐͒͑͐͌̅ͭͧ̒̃̚ͅÊ̮͇̘͌̋ͭ͆ͣ̑̊̉ͤ̄̚È̝̮͚͖̳̝͖̳̓̾ͪ͐̀͊̃̀ͅD̟̬̦̮̥͈̰̟̾̽̒͐ͩͮͫ̇͌͆̿ͩ̇, JEN YOU you did nothing. You huffed, and you puffed, and you wasted my time. You made me wait, Jen. I remember. I remember, vividly, that looong, slooow wait. Waiting for you to put your makeup on, to pick out just the right dress, to fill a cart full of goodies you'd never get to use. I remember pacing that ring, Jen. I think you knew. I think you knew what was going to happen, I think you knew that you were just... stalling... for time. I think you knew that even in my injured state, even with a bad shoulder, even hopped up on enough goofballs to tranquilize a god damn horse that YOU YOU COULDN'T BEAT̜͙͈̥̻͎͊͋͛ͮͤ̏̀ͧͨ ̰͎̗̘̩͙̞ͥͭ̌̓̏͆̇̎ͨM̱͖̙̟̰͈̐ͤ͑͋̔̔̍E̦͓͙̲̖͍͕̟̣̭͔̠̯̝̞̞͔ͧ̉ͩ͆̊,͍̯͎̝̺̽̇̔͛́ͥ̌̚ ̠̱̗͍̮̘̜̍ͥͬͦ͒ͨͥJ͍̱͚̮͚̩͉̣̞̟̮͉̐͂̌́͒̔̏̈ͩͣͦ̈̓ͅEN You knew. And then you... and your brother's... fucked up, psychobilly incest scenario, your mud-flapped Jerry Springer episode of a life, spilled through that entry way and ruined my shot at the belt. Ruined... my win. My victory. You couldn't beat me, Jen, and you didn't. If your chucklefuck dumptruck of a brother hadn't meandered his way down the ramp, you would be out of a title right now. My shoulder's going to heal, Jen, and I'm not going to wait for another title shot to wander my way. I'm coming for you, and if that means assassinating your meathead sibling then I'll fucking do it. I'll find a tag team partner, or I'll dope up and catch you both banging in the parking lot, or whatever it is... that I have to do. I'll do it. In EWC, I hit Mark Storm with a box of centipedes, and I electrocuted him with a pair of defibrillators. I sabotaged a ladder match, and I ended Siobhan Townsend's career. I broke into Xplode's house and I cut a promo from his god damn living room, Jen, and that was in EWC. How much worse do you think I can be in Slaughterhouse? How much worse do you think I can be, with all the shackles off, all the limiters unlocked, all the doors open and the lights... out? What kind of damage do you think I can do? Because that's what I do, Jen. D̟̼̞̺̙̺̯̬͊̃̐̎ͧͣ̍ͣ a m a g e͔̥̫̥͂. I... hurt people, Jen. And I don't enjoy it. I don't get some sick sexual pleasure from being sadistic, like many in this business claim. I'm just... good at it, Jen. Not even good; just... natural. Words are my second language, Jen, pain is the method by which I inherently communicate. I scribe messages in broken bones. I tell stories through scar tissue. I make memories in marrow lost and I... I'm eloquent in the language of torture, Jen. I'm a motivational fucking speaker, Jen, when I'm speaking in corpses. I hurt people. As easily as I breathe, or walk, or consume, I hurt people. Even before I was a wrestler, Jen, that's what I did. I. Caused. Pain. I inflicted suffering... on everyone. Everyone around me. My parents, my brother, my so-called friends, I was a BASTION of god damn DISTRESS and it wasn't until the incident in Shaker Heights that I found my calling, not until I made that move across the border to outrun my sins, my crimes, THE BODIES that I found... my purpose. My raison d'être, my real... my real god damn talent, Jen, and that was damage. Damage. I've been... lax. Let's say lax. I respected Josh Kennedy, I saw Dona Rotten as a kindred spirit, and I treated them like people. Like human beings, Jen. I treated them as competitors, warriors, rivals, yes... but people, nonetheless. You and your blind idiot goon of a brother, YOU HAVEN'T EARNED THAT TREATMENT, JEN! You... you had a chance, you had a real FUCKING chance to just be another match, another hard fight competition and I can't WIN 'EM ALL, JEN, BUT YOU... you pissed that away. You pissed it away, and now--now you don't get to walk away from this a person. You're going to walk away from it a victim, Jen, if you get to walk away from it at all, and I will GLADLY tear through your ENTIRE fucking family to get to you. Your brother, your parents, SEND OUT YOUR GOD DAMN UNCLES AND AUNTS, JEN! THROW YOUR FUCKING GRAMMY DOWN THE AISLE, HAVE YOUR COUSINS AND YOUR NEPHEWS REPEL IN FROM THE CEILING I DON'T GIVE A SHIT I ... don't I don't want to be known as an EWC wrestler. I don't... want... to die as former EWC wrestler, Harlow Kinsley. I want to be a Slaughterhouse wrestler. I want to be a legend in THIS company, an icon and a symbol and the face of Slaughterhouse Wrestling. And I can't do that I can't begin to do that until I get my hands on that belt and thͧaͩ̌̋̾ͮt ͬ̉ͩͭͦͬ̇m͐̾eans getting my hands around your th̳̮̹̫͖̤ͅr̗͈̹͖̘o̻̞̟̠͖̰̻a͔t, Jen. This isn't over. This is anything anything but over." [/align] |
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