Post by colossus on Feb 27, 2024 2:31:55 GMT -5
In the heart of San Francisco, amidst the labyrinthine streets and the cacophony of life's hustle, there stood an abandoned YMCA, a relic of forgotten dreams, now repurposed into a sanctuary for the destitute, like everything else in this god forsaken city. Within its weathered walls, the echoes of youthful laughter had long since faded, replaced by the weary sighs of the downtrodden, and illegal. It was here, in this desolate haven, that Colossus found solace amidst the chaos of his own existence.
Colossus, a titan of muscle and sinew, his frame a monument to raw power and determination (not to mention hunger....was there an In and Out Burger near here that hadn't been shut down because of crime?), strode into the dilapidated gymnasium with purpose etched into every fiber of his being. His manager and confidant, Dick Trickle, a man whose gravelly voice and sharp wit matched a heart of coal, had orchestrated a temporary reprieve from the daily tumult of the shelter's occupants. Through a curious combination of faux charm and generosity, Trickle had persuaded the denizens of the shelter to exchange their temporary refuge for a day of respite, luring them with promises of chicken wings and the sugary embrace of Mr. Pibb.
Who doesn't like Mr. Pibb? And for some of these people, it was like drinking liquid gold.
With the gymnasium cleared of its transient inhabitants, Colossus stood amidst the remnants of forgotten dreams, the dust of ages clinging to his formidable form. His muscles rippled beneath the taut canvas of his skin as he approached the rusting weight racks, his gaze unwavering, his determination unyielding. With a resolute breath, he reached out, his massive hands closing around the cold metal of the weights, each one a testament to the burdens he bore, both physical and metaphysical.
With a primal roar that echoed through the hollow halls of the YMCA, Colossus began his ritualistic dance of strength and defiance. The weights rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, their metallic clangor a symphony of exertion and release. Mirror after mirror shattered beneath the relentless onslaught of his power, the shards cascading to the ground like tears shed for dreams long forsaken.
In the solitude of the abandoned gymnasium, Colossus found sanctuary amidst the wreckage of shattered illusions. With each rep, he exorcised the demons that haunted his past, the specters of doubt and uncertainty banished by the sheer force of his will. His muscles strained against the weight of the world, each sinew a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the forgotten city, Colossus stood amidst the debris of his conquest, his chest heaving with exertion, his spirit ablaze with newfound resolve. In the silence that followed, he knew that he was more than the sum of his shattered reflections, more than the echoes of his past mistakes.
"Oh Leon, what have you done to piss someone off in corporate? For you to get thrown into the ring with my living, breathing monster, in the kickoff match no less. You get to set the tone for the rest of the window-licking losers for the rest of the night. You get to be the first one laying on your back looking up at the lights and we think that's just splendid, don't we big man?"
Colossus grunts.
"Where the hell--err mind you, WHO the hell--even are you? Do you even work here? When I saw your name on the card I wasn't even surprised, I was appauled. Who are you to get to go toe to toe with the biggest, baddest, meanest man in the game? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were the road crew. I'm not sure what's worse, honestly, that ring attire or the wannabe Elvis hairdoo. Do you take yourself seriously?
How can you?
So you're here in a Strongman Competition. You're here to try and lift my nearly 500 pound monster off his feet and slam him to the ring. Listen dinkus, I don't care how big you are or how big you think you are, the chances of you getting Colossus off his feet and then pinning him 1-2-3 are about as good as Joe Biden remembering what he had for breakfast. I'll tell ya what, slapnuts, if you can land even ONE suplex on my monster, just one, I'll come to the ring on Battleground dressed in a chicken suit. And you KNOW how much I like my Georgio Armani. THAT is how confident I am that your wanna be satanic ass can't get the job done. You look like you should be in a dive bar singing shitty Metallica karaoke to a bunch of drunken jaggoffs, not standing in a professional wrestling ring against the worlds most dangerous athlete.
I hope you have a great benefits package in that enhancement talent contract of yours because when Colossus gets through with you, you're gonna need it. He's colder than a bankers heart. You're softer than baby shit."
Colossus chuckles.
"The saddest moment in a child's life is not when he learns that Santa Claus isn't real, it's when he learns that Leon Dread is. This victory is going to be as easy as selling pussy on a troop train. Speaking of pussy......"
Colossus stops chucking the heavy weights and perks up.
"You saw what he did to Brooke whatever the fuck on Battleground, yeah? He ran through that ass like a donkey getting hit by a semi-truck and put her on the shelf. Snapped her little body like a pencil. It was easy for him. Now he gets to face off against your big ugly ass and let me tell ya, its not nearly going to be as fun. We may have to santize our gym bags after rolling around with your greasy ass."
"Lady pretty" Colossus says, before tossing a 100 pound dumbbell like it was nothing.
"This is the end of the road for you Leon, and your road hasn't even been built yet. The best thing you can do? Stay the fuck home because if you show up to San Fransisco, you're going to be embarrassed."
With a sense of purpose renewed, Colossus turned to leave the abandoned YMCA behind, its walls a silent witness to his triumph. Beside him, Dick Trickle stood, a grin of satisfaction etched upon his weathered features. Together, they walked into the twilight, two souls bound by the unbreakable bonds of camaraderie and shared purpose.
For in the heart of San Francisco, amidst the chaos and the clamor, there stood a beacon of strength and resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who dared to defy the odds. And though the world may tremble at the sight of Colossus, they would never know the battles he fought within, the struggles he endured to emerge victorious amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams.
For he was not just a titan of muscle and sinew, but a symbol of hope in a world consumed by darkness, a colossus amidst the ruins, his roar a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there shines a light that can never be extinguished.
Colossus, a titan of muscle and sinew, his frame a monument to raw power and determination (not to mention hunger....was there an In and Out Burger near here that hadn't been shut down because of crime?), strode into the dilapidated gymnasium with purpose etched into every fiber of his being. His manager and confidant, Dick Trickle, a man whose gravelly voice and sharp wit matched a heart of coal, had orchestrated a temporary reprieve from the daily tumult of the shelter's occupants. Through a curious combination of faux charm and generosity, Trickle had persuaded the denizens of the shelter to exchange their temporary refuge for a day of respite, luring them with promises of chicken wings and the sugary embrace of Mr. Pibb.
Who doesn't like Mr. Pibb? And for some of these people, it was like drinking liquid gold.
With the gymnasium cleared of its transient inhabitants, Colossus stood amidst the remnants of forgotten dreams, the dust of ages clinging to his formidable form. His muscles rippled beneath the taut canvas of his skin as he approached the rusting weight racks, his gaze unwavering, his determination unyielding. With a resolute breath, he reached out, his massive hands closing around the cold metal of the weights, each one a testament to the burdens he bore, both physical and metaphysical.
With a primal roar that echoed through the hollow halls of the YMCA, Colossus began his ritualistic dance of strength and defiance. The weights rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, their metallic clangor a symphony of exertion and release. Mirror after mirror shattered beneath the relentless onslaught of his power, the shards cascading to the ground like tears shed for dreams long forsaken.
In the solitude of the abandoned gymnasium, Colossus found sanctuary amidst the wreckage of shattered illusions. With each rep, he exorcised the demons that haunted his past, the specters of doubt and uncertainty banished by the sheer force of his will. His muscles strained against the weight of the world, each sinew a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the forgotten city, Colossus stood amidst the debris of his conquest, his chest heaving with exertion, his spirit ablaze with newfound resolve. In the silence that followed, he knew that he was more than the sum of his shattered reflections, more than the echoes of his past mistakes.
"Oh Leon, what have you done to piss someone off in corporate? For you to get thrown into the ring with my living, breathing monster, in the kickoff match no less. You get to set the tone for the rest of the window-licking losers for the rest of the night. You get to be the first one laying on your back looking up at the lights and we think that's just splendid, don't we big man?"
Colossus grunts.
"Where the hell--err mind you, WHO the hell--even are you? Do you even work here? When I saw your name on the card I wasn't even surprised, I was appauled. Who are you to get to go toe to toe with the biggest, baddest, meanest man in the game? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were the road crew. I'm not sure what's worse, honestly, that ring attire or the wannabe Elvis hairdoo. Do you take yourself seriously?
How can you?
So you're here in a Strongman Competition. You're here to try and lift my nearly 500 pound monster off his feet and slam him to the ring. Listen dinkus, I don't care how big you are or how big you think you are, the chances of you getting Colossus off his feet and then pinning him 1-2-3 are about as good as Joe Biden remembering what he had for breakfast. I'll tell ya what, slapnuts, if you can land even ONE suplex on my monster, just one, I'll come to the ring on Battleground dressed in a chicken suit. And you KNOW how much I like my Georgio Armani. THAT is how confident I am that your wanna be satanic ass can't get the job done. You look like you should be in a dive bar singing shitty Metallica karaoke to a bunch of drunken jaggoffs, not standing in a professional wrestling ring against the worlds most dangerous athlete.
I hope you have a great benefits package in that enhancement talent contract of yours because when Colossus gets through with you, you're gonna need it. He's colder than a bankers heart. You're softer than baby shit."
Colossus chuckles.
"The saddest moment in a child's life is not when he learns that Santa Claus isn't real, it's when he learns that Leon Dread is. This victory is going to be as easy as selling pussy on a troop train. Speaking of pussy......"
Colossus stops chucking the heavy weights and perks up.
"You saw what he did to Brooke whatever the fuck on Battleground, yeah? He ran through that ass like a donkey getting hit by a semi-truck and put her on the shelf. Snapped her little body like a pencil. It was easy for him. Now he gets to face off against your big ugly ass and let me tell ya, its not nearly going to be as fun. We may have to santize our gym bags after rolling around with your greasy ass."
"Lady pretty" Colossus says, before tossing a 100 pound dumbbell like it was nothing.
"This is the end of the road for you Leon, and your road hasn't even been built yet. The best thing you can do? Stay the fuck home because if you show up to San Fransisco, you're going to be embarrassed."
With a sense of purpose renewed, Colossus turned to leave the abandoned YMCA behind, its walls a silent witness to his triumph. Beside him, Dick Trickle stood, a grin of satisfaction etched upon his weathered features. Together, they walked into the twilight, two souls bound by the unbreakable bonds of camaraderie and shared purpose.
For in the heart of San Francisco, amidst the chaos and the clamor, there stood a beacon of strength and resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those who dared to defy the odds. And though the world may tremble at the sight of Colossus, they would never know the battles he fought within, the struggles he endured to emerge victorious amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams.
For he was not just a titan of muscle and sinew, but a symbol of hope in a world consumed by darkness, a colossus amidst the ruins, his roar a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there shines a light that can never be extinguished.