Post by Donnie Harris on Jul 14, 2023 19:17:35 GMT -5
-It was a new world that opened up for Donnie Harris, as the ink had just dried on the paper and he got into the SWAT costume; he couldn’t help but remark to himself that the gimmick was so cheesy that he was shocked that it got over. He was even more tickled that he was thinking in regards to something getting over, but all of it emptied from his mind as he stood over SYNN, having silenced her celebration the minute he was able to get his hands on her, breathing with the rush of adrenaline that consumed him, shooing away an officer of the law with a collapsible baton.
The world changed, and the crowd was no longer there in his mind. He looked at this woman, this vulnerable champion, as she lay helpless, her championship belt laying on the canvas, turned over as if to hide the nameplate that would soon bear her name. He could bludgeon her further and further down the rabbit hole, leaving Easton to have to face whomever to crown the interim champion; there would be no way that SYNN would stay down, but taking a grudge from one OCW to the next? Donnie Harris stood over SYNN, shoulders flexing and heaving as he straddles her torso, watching her breathe shallowly as Easton Alexander continued to bitch about how he should be champion and what not, but he would need to do much more than just beat SYNN now. Another challenge now stood in his path, another rock to climb, another board to break, another jig to dance. He would have to face her assailant, the one that felled that redwood known as undisputed OCWs’ world champion.
Easton Alexander, a man who merely claims to be champion, would have to face Donnie Harris, the man who will be champion.
At least that’s what Donnie found out from one of the road agents on the phone. It was a breath of fresh air to finally have a direction. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders finally. No more pressure from all the expectations he had placed on himself, since the therapy was starting to help; it was finally a chance for Donnie to actually do something instead of sitting on the fence and waiting for his turn.
So many doubts were laid across his shoulders because of the ambiguity he had forced himself to live through, letting the world attempt to dictate his pace, but now he had a chance to show up and do something worth fighting for, even if it was as one of the nasties, even if he had to roll with the Really Rottens.
It was a pleasant feeling.
Nevertheless, Donnie had to plan, had to strategize. Now, after all the time he had spent hiding in his corner of the arena, figuring out who he needed to be, wondering how he was to push himself forward and into the real picture, the night stick he held in his hand, the champion he tried powerbombing through the mat itself: they drove it into him what he needed to be.
Perhaps it was the fact he thought it through so hard, so relentlessly, that he couldn’t actually... act! Even as he thought about all the things he had done and had to do, the only time he actually just fought was when he faced Nickleman. He had a plan, all based around one singular action: literally salting the wounds of a hardcore icon in the former OCW. It worked. Sure, he had hurt himself with the salt too, but the one target he had took his lick of the seasoning and it was enough to do the job.
Now it was time to leave a lasting impression on the new OCW: cut it up, let the wounds fester and bleed, get that lemon juice and salt deep in the lacerations, make sure it hurts real bad; take advantage of the suffering and leave it bereft of its most prized possessions. Donnie had no choice but to bring the brutality now. He chose a side.-
-But no side could be truly taken without having the right physical condition.
His mind? He was ready.
His heart? Fully committed to what was necessary to get the job done as required.
He couldn’t survive in this business as a fastidious planner like he ended up becoming unintentionally. It was time to lower the boom, to bring the pain, to cause ultimate suffering.
Even as he prepared to get his workout in at the gym, which he knew he’d lose time to as he forced his body to a new level of strength and appearance, knowing he’d have to shred every muscle to intensify that intimidation appeal, Donnie was planning. Donnie was thinking. He would need to see about talking to like-minded individuals, steal those tag team titles out from under the noses of the established teams.
But, as any good villain will do, he already thought that no one would be good enough to reach his level enough to be an equal partner. He was already a blend of intelligence and athleticism that no other person that he could consider joining him in the ring could touch.
Even a valet would be just a valet. Sure, she could probably be a viable distraction, especially if her intentions matched his, would she distract the opponent more, or would her feelings get in Donnie’s way?
Would she get in Donnie’s way of conquest, or would she push to be a queen to Donnie’s king?
Why is he thinking that far ahead? There wasn’t anyone, male or female, that could come close enough to get his attention to help him. SYNN was that person once, and he was excited to team up with her, but The Last Sword Swallower and Pratfall In Crater were too cohesive a unit; SYNN couldn’t keep up, so she got what she had coming to her.
Champion or not, she had comeuppance with her name on it, and Donnie paid it back in full by putting her down.
It’s too bad Easton Alexander wasn’t a gallant man, because Donnie would have really liked to bash his head in like a zombie in Left 4 Dead 2 with that night stick, leave him a bloody mess next to SYNN: champion and #1 contender left in a heap. The idea of it as Donnie was in the midst of his squats had him dipping lower, putting more pressure and work on his body as the adrenaline kick influenced his rep count.
He barely gave himself any time to rest, any time to relax. He focused solely on the outcome. It didn’t matter what muscle groups it was either; he pushed himself to the utmost, even as those in the gym stared at him in disgust or outright glared at him. However, because of the amounts of weight he was using and the amount of work he put in, no one really had the cajones to get in his face. There were a few women who tried to get bitchy with him, but he stared right through them, snorted back a wad of phlegm and hocked the nastiest loogie at their feet, threatening to ruin their precious white sneakers. The gasps of shock and looks of disgust made him laugh as they walked, in a hurry, away from him.-
)Donnie Harris(
That wasn’t hard to do, you flock of chattery hens.
-Even some of the machines that the women seemed to excel at, Donnie was maxing out the weight: building his glutes, building the strength in his thighs and hips. He didn’t want to waste any opportunities to get stronger, to put his body through its most ferocious training regimen.-
)Donnie Harris(
I hope you’re blushing from Hell, pops. You only wish you could get this strong. This is why you’re a chunk of worm food, being raped by random superheated objects, and here I am, becoming the champion you could only dream of being.
-However, as the hours wound down, Donnie could feel his body start to quit. His muscles were putty; his dexterity was becoming nil. He could barely grip the pullup bar as he started to, once again, punish his shoulders by dragging his body weight plus two 20kg plates up into the air; he was using an underhand grip, so the pullups were of the “standard” sort. He would finish, unstrap the plates and return them to their stand, only for his knees to give out.
And he could hear it, even though his eyes saw nothing of the sort. He could hear the laughing, the jeering, the jokes; he threw himself back to his feet, flexing every fiber of muscle in his body, not even seeing his face in the mirror. He clenched a fist and beat his chest, the pain of exertion and exhaustion rippling through his body with great agony, but he didn’t care.
This is the level he needed to be. This is what he needed to do to prove his worth and his desire. This is what he felt he needed to do to beat one Easton Alexander. He had lots of time to prepare, and he had all the energy he needed to do it. It was 8 hours today, and he may not have the most amount of energy right now, but he knew that the next step to build himself up would be the cardio workout, as he eyed the treadmills, bikes and stairmasters with dark intent.
His mind was already doing the workout for him, even including a punishing few hours on the Jacob’s Ladder, but this gym didn’t have one; he would have to seek one out or buy one for himself. The masochism would pay off, enough to feed the sadist within.
It all started with a powerbomb; it will end with Donnie Harris, arms raised, holding both OCW world titles over his head.
All in due time, and time is all he had.
And, this time, Easton Alexander would be the first rung of this Jacob’s Ladder.
The world changed, and the crowd was no longer there in his mind. He looked at this woman, this vulnerable champion, as she lay helpless, her championship belt laying on the canvas, turned over as if to hide the nameplate that would soon bear her name. He could bludgeon her further and further down the rabbit hole, leaving Easton to have to face whomever to crown the interim champion; there would be no way that SYNN would stay down, but taking a grudge from one OCW to the next? Donnie Harris stood over SYNN, shoulders flexing and heaving as he straddles her torso, watching her breathe shallowly as Easton Alexander continued to bitch about how he should be champion and what not, but he would need to do much more than just beat SYNN now. Another challenge now stood in his path, another rock to climb, another board to break, another jig to dance. He would have to face her assailant, the one that felled that redwood known as undisputed OCWs’ world champion.
Easton Alexander, a man who merely claims to be champion, would have to face Donnie Harris, the man who will be champion.
At least that’s what Donnie found out from one of the road agents on the phone. It was a breath of fresh air to finally have a direction. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders finally. No more pressure from all the expectations he had placed on himself, since the therapy was starting to help; it was finally a chance for Donnie to actually do something instead of sitting on the fence and waiting for his turn.
So many doubts were laid across his shoulders because of the ambiguity he had forced himself to live through, letting the world attempt to dictate his pace, but now he had a chance to show up and do something worth fighting for, even if it was as one of the nasties, even if he had to roll with the Really Rottens.
It was a pleasant feeling.
Nevertheless, Donnie had to plan, had to strategize. Now, after all the time he had spent hiding in his corner of the arena, figuring out who he needed to be, wondering how he was to push himself forward and into the real picture, the night stick he held in his hand, the champion he tried powerbombing through the mat itself: they drove it into him what he needed to be.
Perhaps it was the fact he thought it through so hard, so relentlessly, that he couldn’t actually... act! Even as he thought about all the things he had done and had to do, the only time he actually just fought was when he faced Nickleman. He had a plan, all based around one singular action: literally salting the wounds of a hardcore icon in the former OCW. It worked. Sure, he had hurt himself with the salt too, but the one target he had took his lick of the seasoning and it was enough to do the job.
Now it was time to leave a lasting impression on the new OCW: cut it up, let the wounds fester and bleed, get that lemon juice and salt deep in the lacerations, make sure it hurts real bad; take advantage of the suffering and leave it bereft of its most prized possessions. Donnie had no choice but to bring the brutality now. He chose a side.-
-But no side could be truly taken without having the right physical condition.
His mind? He was ready.
His heart? Fully committed to what was necessary to get the job done as required.
He couldn’t survive in this business as a fastidious planner like he ended up becoming unintentionally. It was time to lower the boom, to bring the pain, to cause ultimate suffering.
Even as he prepared to get his workout in at the gym, which he knew he’d lose time to as he forced his body to a new level of strength and appearance, knowing he’d have to shred every muscle to intensify that intimidation appeal, Donnie was planning. Donnie was thinking. He would need to see about talking to like-minded individuals, steal those tag team titles out from under the noses of the established teams.
But, as any good villain will do, he already thought that no one would be good enough to reach his level enough to be an equal partner. He was already a blend of intelligence and athleticism that no other person that he could consider joining him in the ring could touch.
Even a valet would be just a valet. Sure, she could probably be a viable distraction, especially if her intentions matched his, would she distract the opponent more, or would her feelings get in Donnie’s way?
Would she get in Donnie’s way of conquest, or would she push to be a queen to Donnie’s king?
Why is he thinking that far ahead? There wasn’t anyone, male or female, that could come close enough to get his attention to help him. SYNN was that person once, and he was excited to team up with her, but The Last Sword Swallower and Pratfall In Crater were too cohesive a unit; SYNN couldn’t keep up, so she got what she had coming to her.
Champion or not, she had comeuppance with her name on it, and Donnie paid it back in full by putting her down.
It’s too bad Easton Alexander wasn’t a gallant man, because Donnie would have really liked to bash his head in like a zombie in Left 4 Dead 2 with that night stick, leave him a bloody mess next to SYNN: champion and #1 contender left in a heap. The idea of it as Donnie was in the midst of his squats had him dipping lower, putting more pressure and work on his body as the adrenaline kick influenced his rep count.
He barely gave himself any time to rest, any time to relax. He focused solely on the outcome. It didn’t matter what muscle groups it was either; he pushed himself to the utmost, even as those in the gym stared at him in disgust or outright glared at him. However, because of the amounts of weight he was using and the amount of work he put in, no one really had the cajones to get in his face. There were a few women who tried to get bitchy with him, but he stared right through them, snorted back a wad of phlegm and hocked the nastiest loogie at their feet, threatening to ruin their precious white sneakers. The gasps of shock and looks of disgust made him laugh as they walked, in a hurry, away from him.-
)Donnie Harris(
That wasn’t hard to do, you flock of chattery hens.
-Even some of the machines that the women seemed to excel at, Donnie was maxing out the weight: building his glutes, building the strength in his thighs and hips. He didn’t want to waste any opportunities to get stronger, to put his body through its most ferocious training regimen.-
)Donnie Harris(
I hope you’re blushing from Hell, pops. You only wish you could get this strong. This is why you’re a chunk of worm food, being raped by random superheated objects, and here I am, becoming the champion you could only dream of being.
-However, as the hours wound down, Donnie could feel his body start to quit. His muscles were putty; his dexterity was becoming nil. He could barely grip the pullup bar as he started to, once again, punish his shoulders by dragging his body weight plus two 20kg plates up into the air; he was using an underhand grip, so the pullups were of the “standard” sort. He would finish, unstrap the plates and return them to their stand, only for his knees to give out.
And he could hear it, even though his eyes saw nothing of the sort. He could hear the laughing, the jeering, the jokes; he threw himself back to his feet, flexing every fiber of muscle in his body, not even seeing his face in the mirror. He clenched a fist and beat his chest, the pain of exertion and exhaustion rippling through his body with great agony, but he didn’t care.
This is the level he needed to be. This is what he needed to do to prove his worth and his desire. This is what he felt he needed to do to beat one Easton Alexander. He had lots of time to prepare, and he had all the energy he needed to do it. It was 8 hours today, and he may not have the most amount of energy right now, but he knew that the next step to build himself up would be the cardio workout, as he eyed the treadmills, bikes and stairmasters with dark intent.
His mind was already doing the workout for him, even including a punishing few hours on the Jacob’s Ladder, but this gym didn’t have one; he would have to seek one out or buy one for himself. The masochism would pay off, enough to feed the sadist within.
It all started with a powerbomb; it will end with Donnie Harris, arms raised, holding both OCW world titles over his head.
All in due time, and time is all he had.
And, this time, Easton Alexander would be the first rung of this Jacob’s Ladder.