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Round 2: "Suite" Pete Whealdon vs. Jason Murray


The Godfather
Staff member
Mar 17, 1988
Roleplay runs from Wednesday, May 9 to Wednesday, May 16. 2 RP max in this round.


League Member
Jul 29, 2011
(FADEIN: To the madness of the ULTRATITLE. Specifically the bowels of the arena where staff and talent wonder about at a frantic pace. Above those responsible for putting on the show are the dying remains of the voices who echoed their displeasure, surprise, wonder, and sheer joy over tonight’s show. In an event like this to make it work you need luck if anything. Some feared the earlier episode would derail the hard work and the dreams. Whether or not Blaine Hollywood or Dan Ryan are ever freed is relative. The tidal wave of desperation and unease carried tonight’s crowd in like a magic carpet, which is to say, nobody knew what the hell to expect. The camera pans down to two who have been easily passed over, dismissed, and repeated cases of mistaken identity – BRONTE LAKES and JASON MURRAY. Bronte dressed in a pair of white new balance running shoes that have seen better days, black yoga pants, and a green cami walks out of the medical center. Across the way, Poison Ivy saunters by, trailing we presume Sean Stevens, though the man is moving too fast to be made out entirely. Ivy looks over and nods at Bronte. She motions ‘call me’ and continues with her walk away every bit the icon of class, beauty, and grace Bronte believed her to be. We zoom, almost bump into Bronte. Her raven colored hair pulled back in a pony, no makeup, she’s radiant. This was not supposed to happen. She bites her lip, what the hell she’s got something to say…)

BRONTE LAKES: TMZ right? Ha. No, come here please. This is for Pete Whealdon. You know, that prick who hid my duffle bag a few hours ago and said I should be gang raped. While my disgust is fresh…

(Bronte looks back briefly and we see Jason hop of the trainer’s table, in black sweat pants, and a sleeveless UK basketball shirt. He looks like he’s been hit by a small, battery powered car.)

BRONTE LAKES: Pete Whealdon. We know what you’re thinking. You share the same thought with the millions of viewers who have watched the ULTRATITLE to-date, you’re thinking who the heck are these two? Where the hell did they come from? Good questions, (Bronte points to the camera) but here’s one for you.

If Jason and I just shocked the world and took out Sean Sevens, what hope do you ****ing have? You’re Pete Whealdon. Maybe that name might open some doors, I’m sure it has in your life.(Bronte runs her hands through her hair, she’s thinking too fast to decide what to say) I’m sure you’ve approached the single mother in a Piggly Wiggly grocery store, staring at her ass bulging out of her jeans and played the “I have a great ‘stache card” and that might have gotten you an empty bottle of whisky, regret, and pause for concern as to whether or not you need a STD test at some point in the next few weeks. But you’re no Sean Stevens!

(Bronte falls back into the arms of the wall just a foot from the open trainers door. She’s completely swallowed whole.) But neither are ****ing we.

This is all sort of a dream, right now Pete. But, we were prepared for this. We’re white trash from Kentucky, who come from a place most people don’t get out of. You’re born in Kentucky, you live, you die there and along the way you ****ing bet on a few horses and try to avoid assholes in the Mexican section of the Wiggly, asking if you like pink tacos. (Bronte bends at the knees and LAUGHS.) If I’m rambling right now, I’m just a little excited. You can understand, can’t you? Beating a legend in the ULTRATITLE then finding out you’re facing Ron Burgandy – the wrestler.


(Bronte laughs, doubles over, she’s delirious.)

JASON MURRAY: (Walks out of the room, smiling. Leave it to Bronte to jump the gun. The rest of the world mistakes her as an introvert. Jason’s never seen her when she’s NOT talking.) Because we’re in round two…

BRONTE LAKES: (pushes Jason away, not his time yet.) We upset everyone’s bracket, but we thought it could happen. I believed in Jason. We watched so much video tape on Stevens, you saw the match, man. All it took was one mistake. And we knew where it’d come to pass. Have you ever watched anything on your tablet, other than your HD shot personal sex tapes? Probably not. I know it’s fun reliving your personal conquests, huh? I’m doing it right now in my head, thinking about all the hard work we put in to capitalize on this opportunity. It’s weird to think, eight hours ago security wouldn’t let us into the building until we were personally cleared by Chad Merritt. Now, we’re one of 64 men left.

(Jason watches Bronte bounce around, she’s on cloud nine. Better stop her before she starts REALLY talking. It’s little moments like this where the Great Lakes is quiet, that he’s learned to step in and take his turn. Jason’s bloodied from his lip. Sean Stevens was a bad mother****er – SHUT YO MOUTH – but its true. How did he win? What business did he have to win? He moved on adrenaline, he felt so lost at times in the ring. Stevens carried him like cross. He’ll never forget this moment. But, yeah, that Whealdon fellow insulted Bronte earlier. He’s green, but Jason knew as the rookie to keep his mouth shut. At least now, he can open it…)

JASON MURRAY: We? I did all the heavy lifting, Bron.

BRONTE LAKES: But you couldn’t have done it without me!

JASON MURRAY: I’m a bit tired right now Pete. Maybe it’s not the best time to cut a promo, minutes after you just sent shock waves through the tournament and changed your personal history, but we’re not promised tomorrow. Its 2012, anyway, the year the world ends. So if today is it, if this is my last day, if we don’t take anything for granted, right here, right now. I made it, man.

I come from a town, as Bronte said, it’s hard as hell to leave. It’s a ghost town of broken men, racial divide, and pseudo Christians who want to believe but look at what God’s given them and wonder which of the Holy Trinity did we piss off the most.

Men and women get up every day and drive their trucks to go work at a Fisher Price factory, or some other back breaking, mind numbing work and the come home beaten, they come home not sure if they’re alive or dead. All you got in Kentucky is a dream men on tv sell you and (Jason looks at Bronte) each other.

But, Pete, Bronte and I aren’t products of our environment.

We ****ing made it out.

I’m not ashamed of where I come from. I’m not ashamed of the wrestling I did in my backward and the promos cut on our pastor’s kid. (Johnny may sing praise and worship but he’s got a roundhouse like a demon) Because what I learned tonight is, in any ring, my best brings a set of concerns to whoever I’m wrestling, be it Sean Stevens, or Doche Whealdon.

I’m playing with House money right now.

As I told Stevens, it’s our time to be hated.

Generation Bored.

Frances Bain is our Cobain. We have no soul.

We are mistakes. Nobody wants to get beaten by white trash and his trailer queen.

Pete, daddy, be as cool as you want next round. But just understand, tonight has just made me even more hungry. This is my fate. It’s my story playing out. You’re a song I once played, Pete. You’ve a good chorus, but the last stanza will be the same.



League Member
Feb 24, 2009
Santa Monica

Pete Whealdon is found to be relaxing in his backyard. Or someone’s backyard. He is reclining under a canopy, an outdoor table of aluminum and faux crystal styled glass his nearest companion. His ever present ashtray. The Glass of Pappy Van Winkle. Two ice cubes. A cigarette points down, perched between thumb and forefinger, his ring finger knocking loose ash in between drags.

Whealdon stroked his mustache with his free hand. Forgoing his normal mesh shirt, he is seen to be wearing one that says “Zero S(h)aves.” With a large image of Zero at the mirror in bold black and white.

He ashes his cigarette once more.


Whealdon isn’t even bothering to look at the camera as he takes another drag.

“Lemme lay it down for yah, straight as an arrow. When the Suite Corporate Dolphin peered out from behind the curtain and saw that three count over Sean Stevens, He was impressed.”

Whealdon ashes the cigarette, leering into the distance, his free hand animated as he speaks.

“While the Suite One is known for loving the ladies. He can’t condone that mouthy bitch at your side. While he can respect, just a little bit, you’re heroic overcoming of an aging paunchy Mr. Mom, fresh off of the couch, and only needing just a touch of help from the ropes.”

Whealdon takes another drag, resting the cigarette momentarily, he holds up his thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart and winks, replacing the cigarette in his hand.

“He can’t help but wonder. What it’s like Daddy, to play second fiddle? First to Cobra, who put away both an active wrestler and something of a legend, and then to your own golly-gee stargazing bucktoothed trailer park slut, that frankly, I wouldn’t touch with your dick while performing a two man double dutch rudder wearing latex gloves.

I know, I know, She was so excited to see a man, with the kind of class, style, and panache that you’ve never known in shitfuck Kentucky. She got confused. She thought “My garbage bag full of second hand store crap has been misplaced”. She thought, Hey baby, let’s blame The Suite One, let’s say he said things he didn’t say.

Maybe when the fine people who run Ultratitle saw you two come stumbling through the door like desiccated corpses, freshly glazed with stale sweat and with a wonderful fluorescent light bulb and tinfoil tan. Maybe they figured they were doing you a favor when they got rid of your shit, or hid it. Daddy, I don’t care. What I do know, is this.”

Whealdon takes another drag. Mockingly taking on a hillbilly accent he continues.

“When Yer Makin’ shit up, Why By Golly, It had better have a ring truth to ‘er”

Whealdon spits, ashing his cigarette,his gesticulations becoming more animated.

“The Suite One understands, Bronte Lake is desperate to jump ship. And she knows a good mustache when she sees one, and She knows when a man’s man’s man walks through those doors Daddy.”

Whealdon wags a finger at the camera.

“Daddy, if I were you, and you were me, and I had the kind of personality that makes paint drying look like The French Connection. And I was comparing obscure nineteenth century naturalists with an overrated mid-nineties disneyfied icon. I know that she’d be looking for something..

A little cooler.

I know she’d be looking at the bright colors, the full set of teeth. I know she’d be going to the locker room pining like she did as a teenager at walls covered in posters of boys who’d never even break step if she tripped, ass up face down into the concrete without panties on. I know she’d be looking at the best shades in the business.

and Yeah Daddy.

She’d see the mustache.”

Whealdon took this opportunity to clean his mustache with his pinky and forefinger.

“And her loins would get moist Daddy, in ways you couldn’t make ‘em if you had a vibrator on ‘em. Daddy she’d be looking at one half of the longest tag team in the world. She’d be looking at the man who is taking Ultratitle round by round, and thrusting his way through it. She’d be looking at the greatest technical wrestler





Daddy, when she’s rolling up to that. How do you think she’s gonna act? like a giddy school girl, she’s gonna make up stories, she’s gonna be wishing for contact, she want’s the brush of a hand against her skin daddy, she wants to feel that hot breath on her neck. She wants to feel like she means something to a someone.

Maybe that’s what’s going on Daddy. Maybe she’s getting tired of hanging around a nobody like Jason Murray.

Maybe that tale about coming out the trailer park is getting a bit tired Daddy. Maybe she looks at Hollywood, and maybe she’s seeing the Whiskey you can’t buy because you’ve never even had the good sense to have heard of it. Maybe she’s seeing me smoking American Spirit and you couldn’t even afford to dip in the boys room. Let alone smoke. Maybe what she sees Daddy, is a man who’s here to fucking rape all the glory out of Ultratitle, So she’s imagining what it’s like Daddy, to have The Suite One stuffing her like a turkey. Maybe She’s imagining what it’s like to have the World Longest Tag Team all to herself. Because Daddy, I may be a lot of things, But I ain’t a one man gangbang.

Maybe it’s all of that. Or Maybe she’s just a lying whore.”

Whealdon pushes the remains of the cigarette into the ashtray. He idly takes a pull off the rocks glass, setting it back where he found it.

“Bron-Bron did get one thing right Daddy, I ain’t no Sean Stevens.”

Whealdon lights another cigarette, flipping his lighter down on the table upon completion.

“Daddy, I haven’t been sitting on a couch long enough to develop a paunch, and day-dream about taking one last shot at history. Just to come up short to a droning repetitive sayin’ the same things as before loser.

The problem with Generation Bored, Daddy. Is you think you’re sporting wood, and all you’re doing is pushing rope.

You’re talking about songs and poems, Daddy. You’re talking about stanza and chorus’.

You see, you’re spouting the same thing you did before. You’re trying to cover you’re a one trick pony. talking about making it out of the trailer park. talking about “aw shucks”. Trying to make it clever and coy, like no one’s gonna see through the facade. Like no one’s gonna see Jason Murray as the cardboard prop stick from his favorite TV show. You made it just far enough daddy, for me to take what little pride you’ve taken from Stevens, bend it over, and ruthlessly fuck the life out of it. The kind of pounding Bron-Bron is dreaming about when she’s running around making shit up about the finest man in this Ultratitle Tournament.“

Whealdon lets the cigarette hang from his mouth as he turns to face the camera. A glint in his eye.

“But your references are all wrong. and the house band is the Dark Magus, and we’re wearing shades indoors, and the song you’re hoping is yours, is Whealdon runs down the Voodoo. You’re hoping for Byron, but you’re coming up Greeley.”

A Wink.

“Daddy, I’d start getting used it. Ultratitle got cool before Jason Murray submitted his 2000 words, Ultratitle stayed cool while Jason Murray discovered he is better than an aging bitter hack. and Ultratitle will remain cool long after Jason Murray has been sent packing to the wheat field. ”

Smoke drifting.

Last edited:


League Member
Jul 29, 2011
(FADEIN: To a small town in Kentucky. The sun doesn’t shine as bright as it does in Hollywood, but just remember Pete Whealdon Kentucky gave us Johnny Depp, George Clooney, Ashley Judd, Molly Simms AND the Colonel with his secret bag of herbs and spices. There’s a case to be made COOL starts in the bluegrass state. We see Jason Murray and Bronte Lakes beside a white trailer. Yes, trailer parks sadly exists. The grass needs to be cut, and you feel bad for the rain that has to wash this place. But, Jason and Bronte know they’re on the way out.)

JASON MURRAY: (holding a voice box to his throat.) I’m Pete Whealdon, daddy. Look at my style, look at my lamb’s wool custom made boots. I killed a man in Reno just to watch him die. Someone just marked out. (Turns to Bronte) You inbred, skank. This is cool, daddy.

(Bronte pulls Jason’s hand away from his throat.)

BRONTE LAKES: Skank? (raised eyebrow)

JASON MURRAY: (voice box) Pete said it, Bron, not me.

BRONTE LAKES: (looks at Jason like he’s lost his mind. Back to the camera.) Part of the longest tag team in wrestling, Pete? (smirk) Only if you’re coming to ring on the back of a ****ing horse, dude.

I get it, you’re from the big city. You like pink dolphins. You know, that’s cute. (thumbs up) Its good you’re not afraid to, you know, be a little gay and admit you like the same things I did as an…

… 8 year-old girl!

What else do we have in common Pete? (holds out hands) Other than the fact we both have pussies.

You’re from Hollywood, the land of milk and honey. Total class all the way. You gotta love La La Land, huh. The entire country is always fascinated with your daily **** ups. (bites her lips) How long before we see you on a Celebrity Fat Farm, or passed out drunk in the back of a limo with “cool” cummed on your chest by some adoring fan, or a nut who’s pissed you’re now smoking filtered cigarettes?

You know, “daddy” it’s not surprising to me you constantly have a fag in your mouth. I’m just a little perplexed as to why you’re leaving your phone number for me and threatening to rip my panties off in the back of a Days Inn.(laughs) I’d kinda like to see you try. Simply for the fact I bet Jason $10 A) your dick disintegrated years ago or b) the only hole with hair around it you like is another man’s mouth.

(she looks back at Jason and grins) But that’s neither here nor there.

Yes, you got me. I’m a sex starved hillbilly who’s waiting desperately to be shown a good time. But, you see, dip****, my idea of a good time as it pertains to the ULTRATITLE is seeing my man Jason beat the ever loving **** out of you in the squared circle. And I know it won’t be easy, for a walking poster for cancer you have talent in the ring I won’t deny that, but I have no doubt during one of your dramatic pauses to kick ashes away (Bronte flicks an imaginary cigarette) Jason will schoolboy you up, or more to the point, just powerbomb your ass for the three count.

You can deny you stole my bag, that’s fine, (she nods) but I’ve got a series of voicemails I’d love to play for the audience. Would that be ok Pete? Nah, I won’t do that to you. (pause) Yet.

The thing you don’t understand about women is not every one us wants to take your D train into the city. I’d wager to say the vast majority of us find you repugnant. (she sneers, disgusted just by the thought of him.) My dad smoked for years, I’ve got the burns to prove it. Color me crazy, Pete, I don’t find a man who smells like an ash tray appealing.

I know misogyny is cool, its current Pete, so keep on truckin’ by all means, but I think you’ve picked up too many runaways off exit ramps on the freeway to have an idea what a real woman wants or needs. Not all us enjoy having a plastic bag taped around our face and told “I’m gonna pretty you up for mother.”

(over acts for the camera)“Norman, who’s at the door? Norman we can’t have company tonight..”

Seeing as how you’re from the big city, Pete, maybe you’ll get that reference.

I’ll try to stay dry as I cheer Jason on from ringside, I really will. But this isn’t about being cool. It’s not about little witty asides and whether or not you might wanna get the baked beans out of your mustache before you shoot your next promo (that’s up to you, really). It’s about wrestling. It’s about the ULTRATITLE. We’re still the massive underdogs. You’re Pete Whealdon who likes Pink Dolphins and trains women to be hookers. DEFIANCE superstar. If we didn’t have lives, or talent of our own I can see a scenario where we’d look up to you and wonder just how much of a character you really play. (puts her left hand over her stomach) But, thank God for us dude, we have talent. And the longer we go in the ULTRATITLE the bigger the contract that eventually comes our way. Who knows, maybe with one or two more wins, Jason won’t have to toil in leagues like DEFIANCE and pretend to share a laugh over discovering you’re a dick.

JASON MURRAY: I’m glad you were impressed with the win over Sean Stevens, Pete. I’ve got moves you haven’t seen yet. This is what I’ve been training for. This is what I wanted. To be in the national spotlight against a name like “****” Pete Whealdon. I’ve studied. You’re way too sloppy in the ring to be that arrogant and confident as to how easy this will be for you.

I will win this match. Why? Because anyone can be a star today. There’s Pete Whealdon who takes a drag and farts and the Internet marks out. You’re about as impressive as the girl who faceplants while skating down her street. Her friends were there and now she’s playing Andy Warhol’s tune. !5 minutes of fame.

Every moment is recorded.

We’re all stars in training, Pete.

I proved that with 2000 words and a photo essay. We’re a few years removed from the greatest generation saving the free world. Kids today…we’re not drafted and sent off to die. We’re left to toil and discover our own way, left to find out there’s nothing new to be said or done in the world.

We’re Generation Bored.

It’s a video game, man.

Plug in and play.

I can beat you Pete because I’ve already done it on my Playstation 3.

None of this is real.

But when we’re in the squared circle, and I’ve bloodied your lip, when I’ve got you on one knee and you’re apologizing to Bron for being who you were born to be, well, I’m gonna make you realize you came into this world decades late, because compared to the beating I’m throwing down to you, charging up a hill in France guns blazin’ may seem like a piece of cake.

The thing about being cool, Pete is its all relative. It comes and goes. People thought Danny Zuko was cool, now he’s all hands with a masseuse. (smirk)

I’m a star. The bright lights above us in the ring, Pete, I know you think they’re for you, I know you love how your skin burns when they’re directly shone at your tanned, smokey, carcass. But it’s not your moment, you dumb ****.

You’ve spent your last quarter.

The game is mine now.

I want the high score.



League Member
Feb 24, 2009
Santa Monica
The sun streaks orange and yellow hues painted across the sky, as majestic pillars of rock jut from the ocean. In the dying light of the day at El Matador beach, Pete Whealdon found himself sitting on a beach chair. A Large tiki torch burned near him, illuminating him.

Even though Bron-Bron did her feeble best to mock him for it. Pete held a cigarette in his hand. smoke trailed into the night sky. Wearing a periwinkle button down shirt completely open and .

Somehow, when you’re looking at the Pacific Ocean, after another day that would easily rank as the most staggeringly gorgeous either Jason Murray or Bron-Bron had ever seen, it was just another day in Hollywood. It’s hard to think of anything in Kentucky that comes close, least of all trailer park alley where none of the stars currently living in Hollywood or abroad came from.

And while not every wrestler can boast the same stellar resume of Molly Sims, few can rock a speedo like Pete Whealdon.

Whealdon in a fashion he knew would continue to rile his opponent, took a long drag, letting the smoke escape his mouth slowly as he stared at the lit end of the cigarette.


Another long inhale, and another long exhale.

“Jason Murray.”

Whealdon stared wistfully at the sunset. Taking another long drag.

“We got a problem.”

Flipping the cigarette into the sand, he continued to take in the vista surrounding him. He reclined deep in the beach chair, relaxing his hands behind his head.

“Jason Murray’s a record with a lock groove. He keeps opening his mouth daddy, He keep talking, but the same things keep coming out. If it’s not music and poetry, it’s video games and television.

Daddy, The Suite one got it a week ago. You’re Generation bored, generation uninspired. From the dickstrand hills of nowhere and making a desperate grab at fame. Turning fifteen seconds of fame in to a minute isn’t gonna be happening.

That’s the good news.”

Whealdon pulled another cigarette from the pack on the arm of the chair.

“Bron-Bron, this one is for you.”

Lighting it with his pink Zippo, he quickly returned the set up to its previous location. He again let the smoke drift idly by into the deepening color of the twilight.

“Bron-Bron, Where did we go wrong? Was it the supposed bag encounter? Or was it the phantom voicemails?

Was it when I whispered tenderly in your ear, when the hairs on the back of your neck stood up and you felt that tingle down your spine, and I said the words you wanted to hear.

I want to gangbang you.

Whealdon winks at the camera. He takes a long drag. You can almost feel Rich Mahogany is with him.

“I know, I know, you’re running around, saying “I got Foooootage!” “I Got Voicemails”.


A single finger pointed at the camera.

“You don’t have shit. You have the teenage fantasies of a day when you can find a man comfortable enough to wear what he pleases, desperately living out the string with a once in a lifetime lucky trailer park lifer. Living off credit long overdue. Trading in your creaky rickety trailer for even scuzzier Days Inn. The walls laced with mold and creeping with cockroaches, and a door without a knob, and a deadbolt the only thing keeping that cold hollow wind from blowing in.

Must’ve been a bummer. Come roaring out of the trailer park and right back into the gutter of low rent motels.

You want what doesn’t exist. Telephone numbers and torn panties. You want it so badly you’re overcompensating in front of your boyfriend.”

He takes another slow drag off of his cigarette, again examining it. He cleans his mustache slowly, bemusedly. He runs his hand through his hair.

“But he can keep you.

You see, if I needed or wanted a lying desperate whore with her baggage train. I really would give you my number. I would rip your panties off, and We could live out your fantasy of having a bag over your head American Psycho style. I wouldn’t be shy about it either.

Maybe that’s the part you don’t get. Everyone knows that Pete Whealdon isn’t known for playing coy or playing shy.

Pete Whealdon isn’t a bashful youth from Kentucky. ”

Ashing his cigarette. He thinks about the obvious bullshit of these voicemails.

“So Bron-Bron. You so desperately want more of the Suite One’s attention, and you’re not even in the same sport, let alone the same league as him.

I’d suggest when you try and come up with these phantom voicemails, which by the way for the two viewers who don’t have any clue, don’t exist, just like the bag, the threats, and the phone number, you can do King of Sleaze a favor.

just one.

go get a wash. You reek on camera.”

Whealdon, stretches his neck, then his arms. Oranges have turned to azures.

“The problem with references Jason Murray, is yours keep coming up short. Nobody cared about Danny Zuko.

Not one fuck was given. The fact you used it to try to pass off something currently in the news, and I think it relates to a man propositioning another man for sex, supposedly in the confines of a masseur's parlour. Which I can tell you’re not accustomed to. Likely because you’ve been nowhere huh?

Nevermind that Bron-Bron is feeding you your best lines, and probably doing the lot of the leg work for you. You’re talking about doing your research, studying, but you can’t even dig out a solid reference on current events.

You’ve got the video game reference, the TV reference, you know more about a semi-gay musical than I do. Bam. Bam. Bam. You’ve got the music reference, the nineteenth century naturalist you didn’t mean to mention.

I’m guessing Francis Bean was too hard for your brain to dredge up?

Oh wait. I forgot Daddy. You’ve got a voice box, And even though you’re not from a generation that’s trying to save the world, you’re educating on the ills and horrors of cancer.

The problem is.

You want it to be the one way. When it’s the other.

You think you’re gonna skate in to round two, You think you’re gonna sneak up on the Highlord of the Cool.

Because you’ve got Movesz!~"

Whealdon snickers audibly. He rubbed his mustache maliciously.

"Because you watched Pete Whealdon put down a retarded man who made more sense than you, who was smarter than you, better than you and given the same opportunity, would’ve had sexy sister giving him direction to keep his foot off of the rope in front of the referee when he was pinning Sean Stevens.

One in a million shot Daddy, and you got it. But the bad news is, you’re on empty and your game is up. The game you’re playing, isn’t the game the rest of the wrestling world plays. despite your fereverant provocations that you wanna be hated Daddy, you’re the type of mewling wanna-be anti-hero you grew up watching in NFW.

How did it feel to see Dan Ryan and Caster Strife living the life you wanted? How does it feel now to know that you’ll never meet them in the ring? How does it feel to be a one hit wonder Daddy? When you make your march out to the ring, with that gaunt gutter slum bitch, how is it gonna feel the next day to watch a better man, the greatest man who’s ever set foot in Ultratitle, thrust and gyrate over your unconscious body. Gonna tell the brood of redneck retards you and Bron-Bron are likely gonna find time to sire?

I laugh at your ideas of a bored generation.

I spit on the novelty of your thin, fake act.

and Round Two at Ultratitle, I am going to rape what little teeny, tiny bit of glory is left out of your career and send you straight back to Kentucky, where you can hang out with the other hasbeens and nobodies, and talk about how for a while, you got to be in the ring with a real star, not one in the making.

You can sit on the corner, with brown paper bags in hand daddy, lamenting about how unfair this whole system is, that you got past an aging almost legend, only to find out you weren’t as good as a man wearing pink tights covered in yellow dolphins.

You can talk about how you almost made it out of the trailer. But Daddy, Hollywood is my town, These are my people and it’s full of broken stories like yours.

And nothing is going to be finer than adding yours to the scrap heap.”

Whealdon takes another long drag, examining the dying ember.

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