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| Broken Home; Saint RP | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 29 2016, 03:12 AM (22 Views) | |
| Donnie | Dec 29 2016, 03:12 AM Post #1 |
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Some stories I just feel like need to be told. I feel that my story is one of those, though I've been hesitant to tell too much, because, well, this mask I wear to conceal my identity. Because of this I've stayed pretty generic with everyone. I think it's time to finally pull down the curtain on my life. Crazy is a word that is thrown around freely, especially in the wrestling business. My father, let’s call him Jack, well Jack played crazy, and he played crazy well. He played crazy so well that most were convinced he truly was crazy. In truth, he was far from it. But he had this uncanny intelligence that he understood crazy; and he had my mother. A lot of what my father did, was inspired by my mother. When I was young, my father couldn’t take it anymore. She was up and down all the time. Depressed one day, chipper the next. Her manic days were scary and her chipper days were terrifying. She had verbal outbursts, bouts of rage, and fits of violence. And the pills, my God the pills. I’ll never forget the day he left. I was only six years old, but the memory is so vivid in my mind. My father had just gotten home from a two week trip across the west coast,. As he walked in the door to our New Orleans home with his bag in his hand, his face lit up as he saw me, lying there in the floor on my stomach with my cars spread out in front of me in complete disarray. The smile quickly turned sour when he glanced over at the sofa. There she was, lying on the couch, her eyes not fully open and not fully closed. Drool dribbled down the left side of her chin and dripped to the floor where a puddle was accumulating. In her hand was a half burned cigarette with ashes falling to the floor. The sofa itself was covered in burn holes from the cherry of her cigarettes. “How long,” he asked me. Even at six I knew what he wanted. But I also knew about the fights and how I hated the fights. “How long what daddy?” “How long has she been like that?” he nodded toward mom. I just shrugged my shoulders. He pointed down the hall. “Go to your room, me and your mom need to have a talk.” Without a word I stood up and made my way down the hall and closed my door. I flopped down on my bed and grabbed at my Superman action figure, twisting it and turning it as I heard the screams coming through the wall. I flipped on the television to try drown out the sounds, but the shouts just got louder and louder. I snuck out of my room and crept down the hall, peeking around the corner trying to be careful so as not to be seen. What I saw had me terrified. My father as pinned against the wall, his hands shaking in rage as he tried to control himself (I didn’t know that then but looking back now, I know it). My mother, meanwhile, unloaded fists on him as he covered up, trying his best to protect himself. “You son of a bitch!! I swear to God if you leave and take my kid with you, I’ll be dead by morning!! As a matter of fact….” She doubled up her fist and cocked him once in the jaw and then stormed off to the table beside the couch. She grabbed her bottle of pills and flipped the cap on it and started to pour it down her throat when my father tackled her sending medications flying everywhere. I sobbed to myself petrified. “Don’t…” “Don’t you tell me what not to do,” she snapped at my dad. “You want to explain to your son, to OUR SON how you let his mother die!! Go for it.” She gritted her teeth and shot daggers through my father. “I hate you! You know that?! You run off for weeks at a time, I don’t see you. You care about your fucking fans more than you do me.” She pointed toward the door. “Get the fuck out! And leave MY son or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.” He glanced down the hall and saw me, tears flowing down the side of my face. He locked eyes with me and had that “I’m so sorry son” look behind those eyes. Then he pushed himself up from the ground, grabbed his bag, and walked out the door. Dean Davies: the resident psycho. The man who wants to make a play against me with so much on the line. The so called “Charm City Devil” himself decided to call me out for thirty points. He’s attempting to make this a do or die for me as he tries to take half my points for himself. Many seemed surprised at this, not me. It’s what Dean does. See, Davies has himself a little problem on his hands, a problem spelled E-V-A, and he sees me as his solution. He’s been eclipsed by his wife. Eva has become the real talent in the relationship. Dean Davies has always been the ultimate alpha male. He’s worked hard to maintain that image and create that legacy. But what happens when not only are you playing second fiddle, but playing second fiddle to your wife? He’s become Eva’s little bitch. I can just see it now, she’s probably got him in high heels with lipstick on looking oh so cute. But alas, that means Dean’s having an identity crisis and something must be done. And in his mind, I’m that something. Thirty points, against the rookie kid who has less than a half a dozen matches under his belt. It seems like a cakewalk to prove a point, doesn’t it? Afterall, I’m the “path of least resistance” to 105 points and a comfortable spot in second place, conveniently under his wife (imagine that). I don’t blame you; it’s the easy route. The Devin Danger Way is what’s it called. But here’s the thing. You can’t judge a book by it’s cover, things aren’t always what they seem, life is like a box of chocolates, all those other overused cliches, because I may be a lot of things, but one thing I’m not is the easy route. I’m Saint, I’m a second generation legacy. I’m the student of Derek Daughtery. I’m the most athletically gifted person on this roster. I bring something to the table you’ve never seen before. I’m NOT a cake walk and I’m NOT the path of least resistance. If it’s a cakewalk you wanted, you barked up the wrong tree. See, for you, Dean, this is just a game. A way to throw around your weight, beat up the new kid, and try to pretend you’re half as relevant as your wife is. For me, this is my chance to put my stamp on my career. Imagine this: rookie kid, barely even old enough to walk into a bar. Less than six matches under his belt beats the three time International Champion Dean Davies. Walks out of Salvation with 95 points. Eventually goes on to win the Point Roulette after riding sky high on that win, and then voila - Redemption Champion. I can picture it now, my name on the marquee, the gold over my shoulder. My picture on the Pay Per View posters. Thing is, this isn’t a pipe dream. This is will be my reality. This is my end game. Truth is, it doesn’t matter who is on the other side of that ring, I’m winning. It’s time for a changing of the guard and that changing of the guard starts with me. I represent the new era of Redemption, the youth movement. So do and say what you will, Dean. Make your threats and your jokes. Draw your parallels between me and your depraved lifestyle that no one really cares about. Go out of your way to show us all what kind of reprehensible, deplorable, human being you are. All of it makes no difference. You’re not better than me. You don’t want this as badly as I do. And you won’t beat me. It’s that simple. Once this match is over, I’ll continue my march toward that rematch with your wife while you’re relegated to playing her little manservant. Just do us all a favor though. Let’s at least make it competitive, so for the love God, have her hand your balls back out of her purse. I’m not looking for a cakewalk. |
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7:16 PM Jul 11
