Post by Deleted on Sept 20, 2023 14:29:33 GMT -5
That elusive apple.
It hangs from the tree, and you can see it, smell it, almost taste it, but you can't reach it. Something about that apple is driving you. Something about that apple is making you do things that you never would before.
You climb the tree, branches snapping under your weight, the apple getting closer with each new stride. Your taste-buds crave it more the closer you get, the inferno rages inside you.
But is it the apple you're after? Or the climb? Is it the sweet, succulent prize at the top of the tree or is the the method you take to get there? The feeling of accomplishment or the feeling of acquiring a prize? There is a difference.
The branches scrape your legs, the wood is hard beneath your hands. It has been easy so far, as you made your way over thick branch after thick branch. But it gets much harder at the top. The branches thin out, even the slightest touch sends them crashing to the earth below. Every movement you make has to be calculated now, or you'll end up in the pile of smashed in apples that lie scattered around the base of the tree. You feel yourself falling, reaching out to grab your balance. Your breathing becomes more rapid, and your focus goes up a notch.
Almost....there.
Almost....................there.
You reach an arm out, but your finger tips barely graze it. There are so many apples on this tree, so many that would be so much easier to get. Grab, eat, go home.
But you want this apple.
You go for it again, the branch is almost as thin as your finger and it bends under your weight. You almost have to contort your body at an angle that will surely pull a muscle, just so you don't break the branch........
If this apples falls, what was the climb worth?
Nobody thinks you can do it. They scream at you from the ground that its not worth it and to just give up. Grab a different apple and get the hell down. Stop being stupid.
Is this apple really worth the risk?
Your mind doesn't have time to process that. You hear the shouts around you but you don't let them register. They are nothing more than white noise.
Your knees are scraped from climbing, you just noticed. Your head hurts from when you misjudged the branch a few feet down and popped up too soon, smacking your head on it.
Your fingers press against the branch again and you lurch forward slowly.....slowly......
There is a breeze now. The apple begins to sway. What if it falls before you can reach it? You can't eat it off the ground. Your journey will be ruined.
You wait until the breeze stops, and you lunge, all of your energy focused on grabbing that apple.........
Your hand clasps around it, and you pull it back. It unhinges from the tree, and your arm recoils.
You got the apple, but now, how do you get down?
Suddenly, the branch you are sitting on snaps, and as if are weightless, you begin to plummet.
You brace yourself for impact, knowing this could very well be the last time you ever take another breath......
You land on the ground, and look up at the sky above you. You see the clouds, sitting there, almost as if they are staring at you, silently judging.
Your entire body is racked with pain, but you find solace in knowing that you did it. You got it. Its yours.
You got your apple.
The world gets dark around you as people close in. You can taste blood. Your insides have got to be shattered.
Someone bends over you on one side, then one on another. You open your eyes, expecting to see a frantic look from the ones who love you......supported you..........warned you..........
You're going to die, you can feel it, but at least you got your apple.
But the only faces you see are those who want your suffering to continue, want you to die as painfully as possible.
You look at the apple. It's lost its color. It is now a bright silver. It says 82.
Hanari awakes with a gasp. He is panting, his bed soaked with sweat. Realizing where he is, he is able to control his breathing. He gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen unit of his luxury hotel suit. Pulling an apple out of the fridge, he stares at it for a moment. Getting this apple seemed easy, just a simple few steps. But there was so much that could have happened. He almost speaks his thoughts out loud.
Why worry about something that can kill you in years, when there are so many things that can kill you today?
He smiles and looks at the apple again.
His apple.
THIS apple.
Walking back to bed, he takes a bite, letting the juice run down his chin. Setting it on the nightstand, he climbed back into bed. The apple would be rotten in the morning, but at least he got to taste it before it soured.
Sometimes, it's about the rise. There's no time to worry about the fall.
The liquors always tastes better chilled.
Ice dilutes it, the trick is to chill the glass. And when serving, perception is everything.
Some people like to use a jigger, if they don't want to be flashy. Perception is everything, but perfection is expected.
Your counts have to be precise.
Hanari looked around the bar in Tokyo. Some of the best bartenders in the world were here. He watched them all, their technique, the way they worked it. This tourists, often rich, arrogant, cheap, ignorant assholes that frequented these places.
Tokyo was not only densely populated, but crazy 'expensive.'
He smiled to himself as he sipped his drink. Expensive. The American Dollar was worth 147.90 Japanese Yen. How many people who come to these places pay attention to that? Most Americans, especially the rich ones, were ignorant.
He flipped the page on the expansive drink menu. All of these prices were listed in American Dollars, but what they would be if they were Japanese Yen?
For example, the tequila he was drinking. Double shot, $14. That is over $2000 Japanese Yen. These people are making out like bandits, and nobody knows it! But, the bar lights up, its glass everything, there is a view of downtown, it has the right ambient lighting. We are told it is prestigious, so therefore it must be.
Perception.
Hanari took another sip, looking around the bar to the other side. The Japanese love to show off, Hibachi and Bartending often go hand in hand here.
On the other side of the bar, there was a bartender flipping bottles and glasses around like a juggling act at a circus. Flipping the bottle behind his back, he poured the shot from over his shoulder. Hanari counted as the liquid poured.
1
One thousand
2
One thousand
3
One thousand
4
And the bartender pulled it back. The cup was filled with ice, and a small amount of natural fruit juice at the bottom.
There was only as much booze in that drink as there was in his shot. But the glass was bigger. The show was there. The foreigners loved it.
Perception.
He finished his shot, and flipped the page menu again. Everything here was about perception.
Best of this.
Royal that.
Top this.
Exquisite that.
Everything was designed to make you believe you were getting the best possible deal for your money, all while they continued to slow cook you from underneath.
Hanari ordered another drink. Chilled glass, no ice.
The liquors always tastes better chilled.
On the other side of him was the giant bay window overlooking the city.
He grinned to himself as he looked out over the city below.
The Dynasty? All about perception. Blake Anderson is a normal shot in a bigger glass. People see him as more than he is, but it is because they have been tricked into believing it. Blake Anderson is just like everyone else but has been packaged and marketing and branded as the best.
Perception.
Hanari grinned again as he sipped his drink. He imagined what Blake Anderson saw when he truly looked into the mirror. Hell, the kid was probably shitting his pants right now. Blake Anderson is the long pour into the pint glass, the jigger with the delay, the extra ice to take up space. Blake Anderson is an illusion, a perception of our own realities.
He is good because we believe he is good.
Hanari flipped the menu to the back.
Deserts.
Closing the menu he turned to the two young women sitting next to him. Smiling, he offered to buy them a drink. Whatever they wanted it was on him.
Reaching in her purse that was hanging on the chair he grabbed her room key, all while smiling at her and nodding. When the bartender came back he slipped it to him, telling him to put it on that room.
"Whatever you want, price is not an issue ladies" he says, "I am going to be a winner after-all."
I haven't had the same booking here as I did in XWF. I haven't been pushed to the moon, I haven't been in the top storylines, I haven't even been past the third match on a card.
Some may look at it as a shot, a subliminal message from the chica in the pants suit that maybe ol' Hanari doesn't have it no more? What they fail to realize is that the talent here at OCW, its top heavy. It's top heavy then has a continental shelf type of drop off. The gaping hole between the top stars here and the opening match filler talent is larger than Belladonna's vagina......but Hanari won't go there. Oh no. Blake know all about that, yeah? Old news.
Anyway, when I was there, they NEEDED me to shake things up. The Latino Love Machine with a background in organized crime and a finishing move that puts people on the shelf....I was intriguing to them. I was different, yah? I won the
título de televisión in my second ever match, holmes, and it was off to dey races from there. I made a name for myself, but all I was ever able to do was plateau. I was needed to fill in their mid-card, but the thought of having me be their campeón universal......well, they just couldn't have that. Big match after big match, selected to the winning War Games team, taking down APEX by myself and being a tag champion solo.....but I was pushed too soon and looked at like an actor after a big role...they just could never see me as anything else.
So I go home, yah? I go home and sit by the beach, sip tequila, train, smoke cigars, train, bed the baddest mamacitas, train some more. I knew one day the phone call would come. I knew one day I would get the break I never got there, yah? So when that phone call from Boss Lady finally came, I knew it was only a matter of time before I came back. Once we worked out financials, and such, of course.
Brit didn't promise me what they did. She didn't throw me into a title match right away, she told me I could ease back in. I could earn it. I could climb the ladder rung by rung until I reached the brass ring. The world was in my palm, yah?
Then the Dynasty came along.
I was fine with facing them, as I love competition. It was when they made it personal that I had to become the man I didn't want to be anymore. I was fine with laughing, drinking, dancing, and winning. They had to disrespect my country and my livelihood and I had to make them suffer. The look in Belladonna's eyes when I locked in that arm bar, the fear that radiated through her as she knew I could easily snap it in two. The smell of her sweat. The feel of her skin. The creak of her joint. Making her scream was refreshing for me. When she reaped what she sowed she wasn't so tough anymore, was she? She was just a scared little girl in a bad predicament. When hubby tried to step in, I put him where he belonged, too. On his culo.
So I come to this match along with my partner, Zella (who has great assests, I may add), and we come to defend the honor of OCW, the honor of pro-wrestling as a whole, and the honor of not being an asshole.
Because Blake is an asshole, and asshole's are only good for shit.
It hangs from the tree, and you can see it, smell it, almost taste it, but you can't reach it. Something about that apple is driving you. Something about that apple is making you do things that you never would before.
You climb the tree, branches snapping under your weight, the apple getting closer with each new stride. Your taste-buds crave it more the closer you get, the inferno rages inside you.
But is it the apple you're after? Or the climb? Is it the sweet, succulent prize at the top of the tree or is the the method you take to get there? The feeling of accomplishment or the feeling of acquiring a prize? There is a difference.
The branches scrape your legs, the wood is hard beneath your hands. It has been easy so far, as you made your way over thick branch after thick branch. But it gets much harder at the top. The branches thin out, even the slightest touch sends them crashing to the earth below. Every movement you make has to be calculated now, or you'll end up in the pile of smashed in apples that lie scattered around the base of the tree. You feel yourself falling, reaching out to grab your balance. Your breathing becomes more rapid, and your focus goes up a notch.
Almost....there.
Almost....................there.
You reach an arm out, but your finger tips barely graze it. There are so many apples on this tree, so many that would be so much easier to get. Grab, eat, go home.
But you want this apple.
You go for it again, the branch is almost as thin as your finger and it bends under your weight. You almost have to contort your body at an angle that will surely pull a muscle, just so you don't break the branch........
If this apples falls, what was the climb worth?
Nobody thinks you can do it. They scream at you from the ground that its not worth it and to just give up. Grab a different apple and get the hell down. Stop being stupid.
Is this apple really worth the risk?
Your mind doesn't have time to process that. You hear the shouts around you but you don't let them register. They are nothing more than white noise.
Your knees are scraped from climbing, you just noticed. Your head hurts from when you misjudged the branch a few feet down and popped up too soon, smacking your head on it.
Your fingers press against the branch again and you lurch forward slowly.....slowly......
There is a breeze now. The apple begins to sway. What if it falls before you can reach it? You can't eat it off the ground. Your journey will be ruined.
You wait until the breeze stops, and you lunge, all of your energy focused on grabbing that apple.........
Your hand clasps around it, and you pull it back. It unhinges from the tree, and your arm recoils.
You got the apple, but now, how do you get down?
Suddenly, the branch you are sitting on snaps, and as if are weightless, you begin to plummet.
You brace yourself for impact, knowing this could very well be the last time you ever take another breath......
You land on the ground, and look up at the sky above you. You see the clouds, sitting there, almost as if they are staring at you, silently judging.
Your entire body is racked with pain, but you find solace in knowing that you did it. You got it. Its yours.
You got your apple.
The world gets dark around you as people close in. You can taste blood. Your insides have got to be shattered.
Someone bends over you on one side, then one on another. You open your eyes, expecting to see a frantic look from the ones who love you......supported you..........warned you..........
You're going to die, you can feel it, but at least you got your apple.
But the only faces you see are those who want your suffering to continue, want you to die as painfully as possible.
You look at the apple. It's lost its color. It is now a bright silver. It says 82.
Hanari awakes with a gasp. He is panting, his bed soaked with sweat. Realizing where he is, he is able to control his breathing. He gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen unit of his luxury hotel suit. Pulling an apple out of the fridge, he stares at it for a moment. Getting this apple seemed easy, just a simple few steps. But there was so much that could have happened. He almost speaks his thoughts out loud.
Why worry about something that can kill you in years, when there are so many things that can kill you today?
He smiles and looks at the apple again.
His apple.
THIS apple.
Walking back to bed, he takes a bite, letting the juice run down his chin. Setting it on the nightstand, he climbed back into bed. The apple would be rotten in the morning, but at least he got to taste it before it soured.
Sometimes, it's about the rise. There's no time to worry about the fall.
The rise is more painful than the fall
The liquors always tastes better chilled.
Ice dilutes it, the trick is to chill the glass. And when serving, perception is everything.
Some people like to use a jigger, if they don't want to be flashy. Perception is everything, but perfection is expected.
Your counts have to be precise.
Hanari looked around the bar in Tokyo. Some of the best bartenders in the world were here. He watched them all, their technique, the way they worked it. This tourists, often rich, arrogant, cheap, ignorant assholes that frequented these places.
Tokyo was not only densely populated, but crazy 'expensive.'
He smiled to himself as he sipped his drink. Expensive. The American Dollar was worth 147.90 Japanese Yen. How many people who come to these places pay attention to that? Most Americans, especially the rich ones, were ignorant.
He flipped the page on the expansive drink menu. All of these prices were listed in American Dollars, but what they would be if they were Japanese Yen?
For example, the tequila he was drinking. Double shot, $14. That is over $2000 Japanese Yen. These people are making out like bandits, and nobody knows it! But, the bar lights up, its glass everything, there is a view of downtown, it has the right ambient lighting. We are told it is prestigious, so therefore it must be.
Perception.
Hanari took another sip, looking around the bar to the other side. The Japanese love to show off, Hibachi and Bartending often go hand in hand here.
On the other side of the bar, there was a bartender flipping bottles and glasses around like a juggling act at a circus. Flipping the bottle behind his back, he poured the shot from over his shoulder. Hanari counted as the liquid poured.
1
One thousand
2
One thousand
3
One thousand
4
And the bartender pulled it back. The cup was filled with ice, and a small amount of natural fruit juice at the bottom.
There was only as much booze in that drink as there was in his shot. But the glass was bigger. The show was there. The foreigners loved it.
Perception.
He finished his shot, and flipped the page menu again. Everything here was about perception.
Best of this.
Royal that.
Top this.
Exquisite that.
Everything was designed to make you believe you were getting the best possible deal for your money, all while they continued to slow cook you from underneath.
Hanari ordered another drink. Chilled glass, no ice.
The liquors always tastes better chilled.
On the other side of him was the giant bay window overlooking the city.
He grinned to himself as he looked out over the city below.
The Dynasty? All about perception. Blake Anderson is a normal shot in a bigger glass. People see him as more than he is, but it is because they have been tricked into believing it. Blake Anderson is just like everyone else but has been packaged and marketing and branded as the best.
Perception.
Hanari grinned again as he sipped his drink. He imagined what Blake Anderson saw when he truly looked into the mirror. Hell, the kid was probably shitting his pants right now. Blake Anderson is the long pour into the pint glass, the jigger with the delay, the extra ice to take up space. Blake Anderson is an illusion, a perception of our own realities.
He is good because we believe he is good.
Hanari flipped the menu to the back.
Deserts.
Closing the menu he turned to the two young women sitting next to him. Smiling, he offered to buy them a drink. Whatever they wanted it was on him.
Reaching in her purse that was hanging on the chair he grabbed her room key, all while smiling at her and nodding. When the bartender came back he slipped it to him, telling him to put it on that room.
"Whatever you want, price is not an issue ladies" he says, "I am going to be a winner after-all."
Some may look at it as a shot, a subliminal message from the chica in the pants suit that maybe ol' Hanari doesn't have it no more? What they fail to realize is that the talent here at OCW, its top heavy. It's top heavy then has a continental shelf type of drop off. The gaping hole between the top stars here and the opening match filler talent is larger than Belladonna's vagina......but Hanari won't go there. Oh no. Blake know all about that, yeah? Old news.
Anyway, when I was there, they NEEDED me to shake things up. The Latino Love Machine with a background in organized crime and a finishing move that puts people on the shelf....I was intriguing to them. I was different, yah? I won the
título de televisión in my second ever match, holmes, and it was off to dey races from there. I made a name for myself, but all I was ever able to do was plateau. I was needed to fill in their mid-card, but the thought of having me be their campeón universal......well, they just couldn't have that. Big match after big match, selected to the winning War Games team, taking down APEX by myself and being a tag champion solo.....but I was pushed too soon and looked at like an actor after a big role...they just could never see me as anything else.
So I go home, yah? I go home and sit by the beach, sip tequila, train, smoke cigars, train, bed the baddest mamacitas, train some more. I knew one day the phone call would come. I knew one day I would get the break I never got there, yah? So when that phone call from Boss Lady finally came, I knew it was only a matter of time before I came back. Once we worked out financials, and such, of course.
Brit didn't promise me what they did. She didn't throw me into a title match right away, she told me I could ease back in. I could earn it. I could climb the ladder rung by rung until I reached the brass ring. The world was in my palm, yah?
Then the Dynasty came along.
I was fine with facing them, as I love competition. It was when they made it personal that I had to become the man I didn't want to be anymore. I was fine with laughing, drinking, dancing, and winning. They had to disrespect my country and my livelihood and I had to make them suffer. The look in Belladonna's eyes when I locked in that arm bar, the fear that radiated through her as she knew I could easily snap it in two. The smell of her sweat. The feel of her skin. The creak of her joint. Making her scream was refreshing for me. When she reaped what she sowed she wasn't so tough anymore, was she? She was just a scared little girl in a bad predicament. When hubby tried to step in, I put him where he belonged, too. On his culo.
So I come to this match along with my partner, Zella (who has great assests, I may add), and we come to defend the honor of OCW, the honor of pro-wrestling as a whole, and the honor of not being an asshole.
Because Blake is an asshole, and asshole's are only good for shit.