Post by BRADDOCK on Sept 14, 2023 14:35:07 GMT -5
We open on BRADDOCK who is sitting in a deck chair, poolside, at the Upstart Federation‘s “Rookie House" in Los Angeles. Behind him, the sunset had the sky aflame in oranges, purples, and reds. The Anti-Icon is in a pair of well-loved jeans, a pair of beat-up old Doc's, and an old Misfits t-shirt. His Mohawk is slicked back and on the table next to him is a couple cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
He tips his head back and guzzles what is left in one of the cans before he places it against his head. A belch erupts from his mouth while, at the same time, he crushes the beer can against his skull. He tosses the crushed can off camera while giving us an exaggerated wink. He pops another P.B.R. and takes a swig before addressing us.
”You all know who I am and why I’m here; on Rise, this week, I face a little cutie who is half my size. Now, I learned a long time ago while workin as a bouncer, that size doesn’t usually matter. Our match, however, is a completely different graphic novel.
Since joining this company, I have been on a tear, wrecking anyone and everyone who management puts in front of me. You, unfortunately, are the next one to get fed to me. I know you’ll fight. You’ll throw everything, including the kitchen sink if you can get one, at me to get your win. That’s not how this story is gonna end.
It may seem like I am at a disadvantage in this match with the stipulation that has been added; I can only win by submission.” he scoffs. ”Things aren’t always what they seem, though, are they? I can jam my thumb into your neck, into that pressure point, and the Asiatic Spike will have you screamin for relief.
Or, I could choke you out using a variety of different choke holds. Guillotine, my ‘Deebo Sleeper which is a variation if the Rear Naked Choke, or the Kata ha Jimenez which I learned a long time ago in Judo class. Hell, I’m not above just goozlin your tiny ass, liftin ya up over my head, and just strangle your ass.
I could also just flatten ya before beatin you into submission. Literally beat you until you either tap, the ref stops us, or I knock ya out. Any one of the three works for me. There are so many, many ways to make you tap. And I have no qualms goin to such lengths to obtain the victory…” he says with a deadpan expression.
BRADDOCK drains the can of beer before opening another. Voices off camera can briefly be heard, housemates, presumably.
”My ‘Comrades-in-Arms,’ Zephyr and Nox, have taken an interest in you from what I gather. I had no clue that they would give you an assist at your debut nor do I know their current agenda, or intentions. What I do know is that they won’t be a factor in our match. I am their muscle. They hired me and, when I beat you, it will be done with my hands and my hands alone.”
He takes a swig from the can of Pabst before letting out a thunderous belch. A satisfied grin curls his lips, briefly.
”Speakin of a loud expulsion of gas; after I storm through Uprising I go on to ‘And Justice for All' where I face Donnie Harris for the O.C.W. World Championship. I hope you’re watchin my match at Uprising, Donnie, from whatever nut-sack smelling basement you dwell. Watch me make Mika tap before our match in Philly.”
BRADDOCK’s right knee begins to bounce while his voice takes on a edge of irritation. ”I can’t wait to get my hands on you. F(bleep!)kin wannabe em-em-aye fighter who can’t take a punch… I'm gonna beat the livin f(bleep!)k outta you. Brit should make sure the blood banks have your type stocked up. You’re gonna bleed like a bitch on the rag…” he says before snatching up the beer can and draining it. As we fade out, he crushes the can in his hand and tosses it off camera. The submission stipulation won’t even slow down this Deathmatch Juggernaut. Get your affairs in order, Mika.
****
The following morning, before the sun is anywhere near rising in Los Angeles, BRADDOCK has barely returned home to the Upstart house. He is sitting in front of a camera that has been set up by a member of Outcast Wrestling's camera crew. BRADDOCK has an interview with a Philadelphia television morning show. While it’s taking place at six-fifteen, Philly time, it’s three-fifteen in L.A.
He looks tired and possibly a little inebriated; his eyes are a little glassy, bloodshot, and red rimmed. When the audio tech places the lapel mic on his, Pabst and Jameson roll off of him in waves. That, and, the perfume of a half-dozen different dancers. He places the “ear-wig" in his ear so that he can hear the hosts in Philly.
”Thank you for joining us on this fine, Thursday morning! How are you this morning, Hank?” she asks, her voice dripping with near poisonous levels of sweetness. Wilford Brimley would be on shilling diabetes meds if he were still kickin and heard her this morning.
Her co-anchor flashes a megawatt smile before answering. ”I can’t complain, Christine! Would it make a difference if I did?” They both cackle in unison. ”On September twenty-secnond, at the Wells Fargo Center, Outcast Championship Wrestling presents; ‘And Justice for…BRAWL!’ It will be a packed night of action featuring some of the best in the business. The main event will crown a new Champion and features Donnie Harris versus BRADDOCK? Yes, BRADDOCK! That’s an interesting name… their match is being contested under ‘Last Man Standing rules which, I guess, means anything goes!”
”Let's ask one of the competitors in the match, live from Los Angeles, BRADDOCK!”
He looks both bored and irritated and gives a little wave.
”What exactly does ‘Falls Count Anywhere entail?” she asks with a used car salesman’s smile screwed onto her face. BRADDOC lets out a sigh before sparking a joint.
”First off, comin up in D.C., I continue wrecking the place at Uprising. I’m facin a little spitfire name Mika and, she has some talent, sure, but she ain’t gettin past me. Since joining this company I have dropped anyone and everyone who gets in that ring with me like they were the North Tower and my name was Muhammad Attah.”
Both anchors are visibly shocked over his comment; the color has completely drained from Christine’s face.
”And, concerning ‘And Justice for….Brawl,’ my opponent is a failed mixed martial artist who turned to professional wrestling in hopes of becoming someone. His m.m.a. trainin might help him stay in this match, it sure as Hell ain’t gonna allow him to win it. I’m bigger. I’m meaner. And I’m willin to go to greater extremes to get what I want.”
”And you want your companies World Championship, correct? he asks with a cheesy grin and a cooked eyebrow.
”I want the money that comes from havin that strap. I want it because my opponent needs it. And I’m gonna take it because I can…
BRADDOCK takes a long drag from the joint before the feed cuts out. They continue on with their morning show and BRADDOCK continues smoking his joint while the crew quickly pack up. He gives them each a joint of their own and sees them out.
The Anti-Icon heads for his bed. D.C. in a few days and then, after that, Philly. His future in the company, and the industry, is looking brighter than he imagined. Before he worries about Donnie, he has Mika to submit. As he drifts off, a text from his brother comes in but he doesn’t hear it…
He tips his head back and guzzles what is left in one of the cans before he places it against his head. A belch erupts from his mouth while, at the same time, he crushes the beer can against his skull. He tosses the crushed can off camera while giving us an exaggerated wink. He pops another P.B.R. and takes a swig before addressing us.
”You all know who I am and why I’m here; on Rise, this week, I face a little cutie who is half my size. Now, I learned a long time ago while workin as a bouncer, that size doesn’t usually matter. Our match, however, is a completely different graphic novel.
Since joining this company, I have been on a tear, wrecking anyone and everyone who management puts in front of me. You, unfortunately, are the next one to get fed to me. I know you’ll fight. You’ll throw everything, including the kitchen sink if you can get one, at me to get your win. That’s not how this story is gonna end.
It may seem like I am at a disadvantage in this match with the stipulation that has been added; I can only win by submission.” he scoffs. ”Things aren’t always what they seem, though, are they? I can jam my thumb into your neck, into that pressure point, and the Asiatic Spike will have you screamin for relief.
Or, I could choke you out using a variety of different choke holds. Guillotine, my ‘Deebo Sleeper which is a variation if the Rear Naked Choke, or the Kata ha Jimenez which I learned a long time ago in Judo class. Hell, I’m not above just goozlin your tiny ass, liftin ya up over my head, and just strangle your ass.
I could also just flatten ya before beatin you into submission. Literally beat you until you either tap, the ref stops us, or I knock ya out. Any one of the three works for me. There are so many, many ways to make you tap. And I have no qualms goin to such lengths to obtain the victory…” he says with a deadpan expression.
BRADDOCK drains the can of beer before opening another. Voices off camera can briefly be heard, housemates, presumably.
”My ‘Comrades-in-Arms,’ Zephyr and Nox, have taken an interest in you from what I gather. I had no clue that they would give you an assist at your debut nor do I know their current agenda, or intentions. What I do know is that they won’t be a factor in our match. I am their muscle. They hired me and, when I beat you, it will be done with my hands and my hands alone.”
He takes a swig from the can of Pabst before letting out a thunderous belch. A satisfied grin curls his lips, briefly.
”Speakin of a loud expulsion of gas; after I storm through Uprising I go on to ‘And Justice for All' where I face Donnie Harris for the O.C.W. World Championship. I hope you’re watchin my match at Uprising, Donnie, from whatever nut-sack smelling basement you dwell. Watch me make Mika tap before our match in Philly.”
BRADDOCK’s right knee begins to bounce while his voice takes on a edge of irritation. ”I can’t wait to get my hands on you. F(bleep!)kin wannabe em-em-aye fighter who can’t take a punch… I'm gonna beat the livin f(bleep!)k outta you. Brit should make sure the blood banks have your type stocked up. You’re gonna bleed like a bitch on the rag…” he says before snatching up the beer can and draining it. As we fade out, he crushes the can in his hand and tosses it off camera. The submission stipulation won’t even slow down this Deathmatch Juggernaut. Get your affairs in order, Mika.
****
The following morning, before the sun is anywhere near rising in Los Angeles, BRADDOCK has barely returned home to the Upstart house. He is sitting in front of a camera that has been set up by a member of Outcast Wrestling's camera crew. BRADDOCK has an interview with a Philadelphia television morning show. While it’s taking place at six-fifteen, Philly time, it’s three-fifteen in L.A.
He looks tired and possibly a little inebriated; his eyes are a little glassy, bloodshot, and red rimmed. When the audio tech places the lapel mic on his, Pabst and Jameson roll off of him in waves. That, and, the perfume of a half-dozen different dancers. He places the “ear-wig" in his ear so that he can hear the hosts in Philly.
”Thank you for joining us on this fine, Thursday morning! How are you this morning, Hank?” she asks, her voice dripping with near poisonous levels of sweetness. Wilford Brimley would be on shilling diabetes meds if he were still kickin and heard her this morning.
Her co-anchor flashes a megawatt smile before answering. ”I can’t complain, Christine! Would it make a difference if I did?” They both cackle in unison. ”On September twenty-secnond, at the Wells Fargo Center, Outcast Championship Wrestling presents; ‘And Justice for…BRAWL!’ It will be a packed night of action featuring some of the best in the business. The main event will crown a new Champion and features Donnie Harris versus BRADDOCK? Yes, BRADDOCK! That’s an interesting name… their match is being contested under ‘Last Man Standing rules which, I guess, means anything goes!”
”Let's ask one of the competitors in the match, live from Los Angeles, BRADDOCK!”
He looks both bored and irritated and gives a little wave.
”What exactly does ‘Falls Count Anywhere entail?” she asks with a used car salesman’s smile screwed onto her face. BRADDOC lets out a sigh before sparking a joint.
”First off, comin up in D.C., I continue wrecking the place at Uprising. I’m facin a little spitfire name Mika and, she has some talent, sure, but she ain’t gettin past me. Since joining this company I have dropped anyone and everyone who gets in that ring with me like they were the North Tower and my name was Muhammad Attah.”
Both anchors are visibly shocked over his comment; the color has completely drained from Christine’s face.
”And, concerning ‘And Justice for….Brawl,’ my opponent is a failed mixed martial artist who turned to professional wrestling in hopes of becoming someone. His m.m.a. trainin might help him stay in this match, it sure as Hell ain’t gonna allow him to win it. I’m bigger. I’m meaner. And I’m willin to go to greater extremes to get what I want.”
”And you want your companies World Championship, correct? he asks with a cheesy grin and a cooked eyebrow.
”I want the money that comes from havin that strap. I want it because my opponent needs it. And I’m gonna take it because I can…
BRADDOCK takes a long drag from the joint before the feed cuts out. They continue on with their morning show and BRADDOCK continues smoking his joint while the crew quickly pack up. He gives them each a joint of their own and sees them out.
The Anti-Icon heads for his bed. D.C. in a few days and then, after that, Philly. His future in the company, and the industry, is looking brighter than he imagined. Before he worries about Donnie, he has Mika to submit. As he drifts off, a text from his brother comes in but he doesn’t hear it…