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Round 3: Spooky Doom vs. Orphan


The Godfather
Staff member
Mar 17, 1988
Roleplay begins Thursday and ends next Thursday. 3 RP maximum.

You may submit a card segment for use on the card by private messaging it to the following usernames: Chad; Ford; User Poets Not all segments may be used (i.e. we might only include winners, just depends on the amount of craziness).


Mar 11, 2012
Water cooler talk

Spooky Doom: "Bein' Spooky ain't easy; no one believes me whenever I say either of the following two statements. To wit..."

1) That I'm some manner of Grim Reaper-like thingy from beyond the grave, the little nephew of this six foot ten supernatural zombie/redneck/professional superstar with a penchant for burying his foes while listening to some Fred Durst, and that I'm sent to capture the souls of those who have none during the brief period of convalescence my uncle is having from this thing called Death.

2) How I actually mean everything that I say about the importance of inspiring others. I consider imagination the greatest gift a child can possess and that courage comes in challenging the world for your dream. I genuinely love wrestling and everyone who partakes in it.

"Thing is, I ain't lying. My name's Spooky Doom: strongest hitting force in the world. I speak with the words of truth and strike like the hammer of the gods."

FADE TO... Cinematic recollection of various athletic spots from Spooky Doom's previous rounds in the ULTRATITLE, all played to his theme song of "What's Up People" by Maximum the Hormone. "SPOOKY DOOM" wooshes across your screen in fancy computerized letters as we glimpse the Deadkid in rapid fire videos: executing 450 splashes, acrobatic arm drags and death-defying leaps onto his opponents. Followed by stills of him from the IWF, stills of him sitting on a desk with a glass of whisky in his hand from a previous promo, stills of him midair as he leaps over the top rope. Professional work all around, all leading to...

Spooky Doom strolling through ESEN headquarters, continuing his point already in progress. Cameras find the lil' Phenom casually making his way through the wide hallways of the corporate offices; a masked marvel amongst administrative personel, the brightly attired luchador filmed against taupe walls and artificial plants. Think of this place as a central hub for the various organizations making the FWrestling whole: EPW, ACW, even Spooky's home promotion of IWF are all represented here. Keep walking, portraits are hung of some of this industry's greats, champions and past ULTRATITLE winners who've propelled this company to worldwide attention. And there's a frame just waiting for the 2012 winner. Spooky Doom stands right under it.

Spooky Doom: "I guess the first point is easy enough to prove; I show my papers, explain the bureacracy inherent to the business of soul collection and the necessity of splitting such offices into their relevant categories. As you can tell, I work specifically in the pro-wrestling and pro-wrestling related department and conduct my duties by way of running very very very fast and launching myself at targets like the human weapon that I am. Whether it's through the Doom Reaper or the amazing Wheel of Doom, high impact offense is the name of my game and my game sends you straight to your grave."

"Nope, amazingly enough it's always the second item which leaves my fellow grapple-brothers incredulous. The wrestling industry is so cynical, it's crazier finding someone who cares about doing the right thing than it is to see an agent of the Underworld busy collecting the souls of evil wrestlers. But no one enters this business an utter bastard- Okay, most who enter this business... Who am I kidding? A minority of those who join this sport don't start off as irredeemable hate-filled monsters... it's the choices we take that lead us there."

Close by the water cooler, realization dawns across the masked face of Spooky Doom that his task as reaper of souls will probably never be finished. "You don't ever see this bullshit in hockey!" he quietly remarks to himself. "They don't have any Grim Reapers in muthafrikkin' hockey and they're only three-fourths as violent as we are!" The luchador pours himself a glass of water. It's only water, but it helps. Regardless, he must go on. Such is his curse, such is his destiny...

Spooky Doom: "Anywho, this segues quite nicely into my next point. See, if your name is Orphan or SEEEEEEEMOOR or the Falsy (I'm probably pronouncing it wrong but that's what it sounds like), you must be thinking you're going through déjà vu all over again. "Didn't I beat the goofy young idealistic luchador already?" In a word, no. Let me explain to you the difference between Leyenda del Ocho and your friendly neighborhood Spooky Doom: experience. As in: I've fought underneath this mask for about five years now. Professionally; not talking about spirit quests in Mexico anymore but actual real world experience through SWAT, ICWF and a few other organisations you might be familiar with. Now ask yourself if you know of anyone who wears a mask for as long as I have and still carries it to this day..."

Another breakdown as Spooky Doom realizes just how old he's become. "Oh God I'm twenty-two... soon I'll be an old man!" He gulps another drink and pretends to himself that it's whisky. "Can't imagine what'll happen to me once I turn thirty..." Bravely, the Undead Superstar holds back his tears.

Spooky Doom: During my time traveling across promotions, I met my share of assholes behind the scenes and been hurt by those I trusted most. Crissakes, my whole experience with Shootfire Pro was pretty much one huge rib at my expense: I'll trade you my AJ Black for your SilverHAWK and we'll discuss who's worse later on. Yeah I know you said he was dead, I work with zombies. But without going into details, do you think for one second it was easy having people accept this lil' Grim Reaper thingy in their promotions, nevermind convincing them I'm world champion material? The people who knew me then are forced to admit that I've "stepped my game up" so as to save face, but that's not true. I've always been this cool. I always knew I'd shine."

"This boundless optimism you see in luchadors such as Leyenda Del Ocho, it doesn't flow like water from a spring. It comes from the strength hidden within all of us, which we luchadors draw into our masks. Whether it's faith, video games or repressed memories stemming from childhood trauma; something keeps us fighting through adversity. I look at you Orphan, and I look at someone who fell but fell down hard. Reminds me of what I said to that one atheist who kept telling me how I couldn't claim his soul on account that he didn't believe in the concept of the soul and was therefore immune to any soul collecting mandate."

"Those who don't believe in anything, will fall for everything."

"Then I took his soul, in case you were wondering. Now I see that without any of these strengths to keep you going you chose hate. But hate wasn't forced upon you, it was your choice that lead you to being the monster that is Orphan. Abandonment issues? What are you, Little Orphan Whiny? Hard knock life son, they buried my uncle while he was still alive and broadcasted the video on PPV. You're hanging out with three hot mommas working an... Oedipus complex? I don't know, I'm a luchador, not a psychiatrist."

"No; you know what's the most impossible, reality defying subject in ALLLLLLL of professional wrestling? A short dude like yourself, looking much like myself, except he's talking about sorrow and pain and crying on camera while lying in bed surrounded by hotties. AM I THE ONLY ONE WILLING TO ADDRESS THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM? Hot Topic reject with emo facepaint and Sephiroth hair surrounded by hot loving women crying on about how he tried so hard but in the end it doesn't really matter- Nevermind the undead Grim Reaper shtick, THIS is the most unbelievable thing going on right now at the ULTRATITLE!"

Woots from the guys stopping long enough to listen to Spooky Doom ramble on and on about the mighty Orphan? You betcha there are woots: loud woots with a few hollers mixed in with some clapping of the hands for good measure. Spooky Doom capturing the attention of the ESEN taskforce, a workplace distraction around the water cooler. Another gulp, no longer to assuage the pain of existance but merely to wet his whistle after a long speech. Close-up on the Undead Superstar as he resumes.

Spooky Doom: "So when you finally face me in Round Three, understand you're no longer fighting some younger version of yourself, you're fighting the guy who stood back up after getting knocked down. Broken Hero, meet the True Hero of the ULTRATITLE; Spooky Doom dropping some Joseph Campbell on the competition cuz I'm not just cute, I'm cultured too! And now the lil' Grim Reaper thingy is on the attack, coming to claim your soul. Orphan: you don't get to talk shit about purety of motive or dreams about making wrestling a better place as long as you choose hate. Choose lucha libre. That means flying about the ring like a spazz and hitting people with crazy twisting dives. Not just a kick to the temple, with the full 195 pounds of my body."

"How does that matter? As much as you talk about the sorrow you feel whenever you're "forced" to finish someone, you're never going to feel anything kicking people in the head. Ever jumped from the top rope? High risk maneuvers hurt like the Dickens! I feel a portion of my victim's pain every time I go for the Wheel of Doom. I don't finish off an opponent unless I'm willing to risk myself in the process. All you ever risk is a stubbed toe. Talk about suffering; do a four-fifty off the top and land on some stranger's bony ass: THAT'S REAL ACTUAL PAIN YOU LONG-HAIRED EMO DORK!"

"It's just a little hurting, but it helps justify my position as the lil' Grim Reaper of the Fwrestling brand. You'd want to do my job without feeling the pain you put other's through: that's justice without compassion for the victims. As much as you see yourself as the next savior of pro-wrestling, you've fought monsters for so long that you became one yourself; but I guess you've figured that out already. So that means another job for the Spooky Doom. I guess when Death's at the office, Fate is but a coworker assigning files for the day."

Exit the Undead Superstar, walking down the hall, making a bee line for the men's bathroom. Shouldn't have drank all that water, Spooky Doom!

Seymour Almasy

New member
Oct 11, 2004
Re: Water cooler talk


The hour is dusk at Treelawn Cemetery, a modestly-sized burial site on the far end of Long Island. As one might guess from its name, the cemetery is filled with trees, casting shades upon the neat rows of tombstones that stretch on for as far as the eye cares to see.

Standing before one plot in particular, the tombstone topped with several small, roundish stones, is Orphan. In spite of the heat and humidity on Long Island, he wears a hoodie, ivory white with the words “CHOOSE HATE” blared across the front in bright, red letters. The hood is up, obscuring his long, platinum hair. Seemingly the fal’Cie’s only concession to the weather is a pair of jean shorts.

Casting a gaze over his shoulder fondly at the tombstone there, he turns back, and shakes his head wryly. In spite of making this journey on a weekly basis, it is no mistake that he is still here an hour after his usual departure time.

ORPHAN: So, this is it, huh? After just over thirty years on this Earth, it’s already come to this. Hell, some people said I’d be in a wheelchair by the time I was thirty. They were wrong, but I guess it’s even worse than just being wheelchair bound for the rest of my life. I have Death after me, instead.

There is something teasing or amused in his expression. It doesn’t last long.

ORPHAN: The Grim Reaper comes soon for my mortal soul. And to him, to this Spooky Doom, I ask merely this.

The hint of a bemused smile on Orphan’s face vanishes utterly, replaced by a mask of rage, the Spirit of ACW’s unpainted face as red as it is when he does battle wearing his facepaint.

ORPHAN: Where the **** were you when I was begging, no, when I was PRAYING for you to come take me off of this miserable rock? Where were you when I went to bed every night for a month wishing that I had the courage to blow my ****ing brains out and end it all, so that I didn’t have to see another day?

The words are clipped, anger in every syllable. The fal’Cie’s muscles tremble with the simple effort of standing, fists clenched as he forces himself to relive memories that are never far from the surface of who he is; memories that rip open wounds that can never truly heal.

Still, he shakes his head once more, almost in apology.

ORPHAN: I’m sorry, that might be a little much to take in all at once. So let’s start from the beginning, shall we, Spooky?

How many men ever get the chance to tell Death their grievances directly? It is not a chance Orphan intends to waste.

ORPHAN: The year is 2005, I’m a bright, bouncing hero intent on saving the world from all manners of evil. I’ve been divorced from my wife for six months because, to be honest, she broke up with me because she couldn’t stand being stalked by wrestling dirt sheet writers who wanted the inside scoop on my career. Because she couldn’t take fans stopping us every five seconds for an autograph or a picture. Because she had the audacity to want to live a private life. I could give her trips to anywhere in the world, my pint-sized Grim Reaper. I could give her lovely meals. The one thing I could not give her, though, was that one thing she and so many others value most: privacy.

He could see them all clearly, to this very day. On occasion, he was still bothered by the wrestling paparazzi, but he’d worked out a way to deal with most of them. He’d give them time of his own accord, willingly. Outside of that? Don’t **** with him.

There were many who had tried to cross that simple edict. Most of them weren’t physically assaulted for their insolence.

Most, anyhow.

As far as Orphan is concerned, though? They deserved to die for what happened next.

ORPHAN: She came up to me in the middle of Primetime Central’s Golden Turnbuckle Tournament 5 and asked –no, she begged for me back. Only the woman who embodied every desire I’d ever had, everything I could ever want in a life partner. The only catch? I had to give this up. Give up this strange mix of vaudeville theater and mortal combat, and spend the rest of my life deliriously happy with her. Considering the fact that I’m standing here talking to you, Spooky, I’m pretty sure you know I made the wrong choice.

Dropping to his knees at the gravesite, Orphan brushes his fingers across the face of it, over the word “WINTERS” etched into the stone. His fingers dip in and out of the shallow etchings as he does so, fresh tears in the Orphan’s eyes.

ORPHAN: And so, she pulled out a pistol from the folds of her dress. Pointed it at herself. Pulled the trigger. Collapsed in my arms, leaking blood from the wound that would ultimately kill her.

His gaze next goes to the smaller plate in the ground, the one with her full name. “LAURA MARIE WINTERS” stares back up at him from the cold, lifeless marble.

ORPHAN: And then, six days later, Spooky…you came for her. So I’m going to ask you again. Why not me?

The question is less angry than a plea from the depths of the soul of the Seymour Almasy of seven years ago, a man who still to this day could not come to grips with the horrors of July of 2005.


His forehead falls to the marble, fresh tears staining the stone as he sobs away bitterly. When his head rises next, the tears still flow, but the Spirit of ACW grits his teeth and forces his way on, even as his long hair slips free from the hood and clings to his tear-streaked face.

ORPHAN: Everyone hates you, Grim Reaper, but it’s not for the simple fact that you bring death. No, Spooky, I know well that this is where we all end. From the dirt we rise, and to it we return. We are born, we live, and we die; that is a fact of humanity, a fact of life itself. But what I hate, Spooky? You’re a mercurial son of a *****. Some of us make it ninety-five years. Others? You barely even let them out of the womb. You do what you want. When you want. And that’s just plain not fair.

A chuckle escapes from the Spirit of ACW’s throat, a low, uneasy sort of laughter as he rubs his hands together, very, very slowly.

ORPHAN: I’m looking forward to asking you why you’re such an asshole. Why you took her from me. Why you took my GRANDFATHER, the man who raised me who’s buried five plots down that way from me ONE WEEK EARLIER, YOU CALLOUS ASSHOLE?! And if you don’t answer, if you give me some bull**** about Fate, Doom? I will hurt you. I will make what happened to Space God and Leyenda de Ocho look like summer vacation. I will make you wish that your uncle was there with one of his coffins to carry away what remains of you.

Spooky Doom might well be the Grim Reaper, but to the Orphan’s mind, both men were and are very capable of passing judgments. Orphan’s brand of Merciless Judgment has earned him countless victories in the past year.

And perhaps no head punt that he could deliver, not even the umpteenth to Khristain Keller, the man who made him this way, would be as utterly satisfying as taking the head off of the being which spirited away his beloved Laura to the afterlife.

ORPHAN: The funny part of all of this? You could have stopped this from happening. You could have taken me back when I was ready, and it’d have been a routine stop for you. I’d have gone quietly, and I’d probably be buried in this cemetery as we speak.

It is a ludicrous thought for the Orphan of today, but he knows it to be utterly, one hundred percent true. If only he’d had the courage to pull a trigger, or step off of a chair, he’d be gone, and it would have all ended before it truly began.

ORPHAN: I know I’m going eventually, and when I do, it’s not going to be here where I want it to be, buried alongside the love of my life. Perhaps fate will be kind enough that I can be buried with my Party, together in death with the three women who have given me my reasons to live, but regardless. Because of you, Spooky, my wife’s last conscious memory of me is me refusing to marry her once more. That’s my fault, and it will haunt me until the day I join her here – but it’s also your fault. Your fault for taking her away when she’d stabilized at the hospital. YOUR FAULT FOR TAKING HER AFTER I’D GOTTEN MY *******ED HOPES UP THAT SHE’D LIVE AND I COULD RETIRE AND GIVE HER EVERYTHING SHE’D EVER WANTED!

The look in the fal’Cie’s eyes isn’t anger. Not anymore. No, what stares into the soul of Spooky Doom and ESEN viewers worldwide is a despairing concoction of conviction and desperation that penetrates to the marrow.

ORPHAN: Back in 2005, Spooky? I’d have welcomed you with open arms. I’d have closed my eyes and sung your praises as you sent me to go meet Charon. But now, my friend? Now I’ve got things to live for again. I have my Party, my three-woman fanclub. Three people who would weep over my death. Three people I would give ANYTHING to keep from crying.

He pats his shoulder three times, where, on a more normal occasion, his championship belt would be proudly displayed.

ORPHAN: I have twelve pounds of silver, the Spirit of ACW. It’s the embodiment of my goals, my dreams, my mission to make ACW safe for the Leyenda de Ochos of the world, for the next generation of wrestlers who want to fight their heroes and not be maimed by them.

He falls quiet for a moment, as if remembering the heroic luchador’s struggle against him.

ORPHAN: You see, I realized that to lay down and hope for death was the coward’s way out. Only after suffering unimaginable heartbreak and sorrow did I understand that I had been weak, all along. In praying for you to come, Spooky, I was giving up. Conceding. Letting you win. I picked myself up off of the cold ground that day, and I continued my career. I won World Championships. I became a household name in this industry. But I never, NEVER forgot Laura. Even to this day, I wear the band that united us on my finger.

Even through all of the atrocities Orphan has committed, and will likely continue to commit in the name of his vision of justice, fairness, and tolerance, that modest diamond wedding band remains on his right ring finger, glinting just a bit in the dim light of dusk.

ORPHAN: How ironic, that now that I have made peace with living, seven years later, you come for me. You come for my dreams of winning the ULTRATITLE and using that venerated strap to bring about true change in the sport I love – in one of the few things that I have left in this whole, wide world. You may claim to hit harder than any man in the world, Death, but you do not hit harder than the sorrow and agony this world has already inflicted upon me. Perhaps you sense me a vulnerable foe, one weighted down by grief and sadness, but I assure you, Spooky, that you will have to drag me off of this mortal coil kicking and screaming.

Orphan is not, and likely would never again be lacking for conviction. His battle with Leyenda de Ocho was to both cripple the luchador to prevent him from being harmed as Orphan himself had been, but also to surpass Leyenda and continue in the tournament to save future Leyendas from...people like what he was slowly turning into.

Here, there is no such duality. No such split motivation. The goal is simple: annihilate Spooky Doom for all that he had done, and advance onwards in the tournament.

ORPHAN: You beat Carl Bigsby and Mike C, Mr. Doom, but I am a different breed. I will fight you in the center of that ring. I will show you the power of remorse, the power of anger, the power of terror. I will fight you with those weapons that humanity shuns, and I will take pleasure in your pain. I will not go gently into that good night! I will make you experience the helplessness that most of your victims feel as you callously shuffle them off of this mortal coil!

It is, perhaps, poetic, for a man as affected by death as Seymour Almasy/Orphan to come face to face with Death itself. Few men are as well equipped with motivation to stare it in the face, and punt it in the skull.

Orphan is ready for his date with destiny; that much seems absolutely certain.

ORPHAN: In round one, I overcame a God. In round three, I will overcome the Grim Reaper himself. And I will do so in the name of Laura Marie Winters. Spooky, you should have taken me all of those years ago, when I was ready to go. When I wouldn’t have put up one iota of resistance. But now, I am ready for your challenge.

Perhaps it is the fact that he’s faced death, literally and figuratively, so many times that has him so prepared to face its purveyor. Perhaps his convictions are simply that strong.

Or perhaps, as many ACW fans are starting to believe, the once-beloved Seymour Almasy is slowly working his way off of the deep end, and into the depths of madness.

ORPHAN: You will win, Spooky Doom, in the end. Inevitably you must; such are the rules of the game of life. But you will NOT beat me in round three of the ULTRATITLE Tournament. You will NOT take from me what I have spent seven years cobbling together at the cost of absolutely everything! Decades from now, when I am old, and my hair is grey from age and not dye, you will come for me and you will win, my pint-sized Grim Reaper.

Finally, the smile returns to the face of the fal’Cie, a broad, open, honest grin.

ORPHAN: But what a hollow, hollow victory that will be…



Mar 11, 2012
Let's talk about saving professional wrestling

Spooky Doom: "You're welcome."

"You know, for giving you the mental motivation to keep on fighting through the cruel tragedies that have plagued your existance? You're acting like an ungrateful little bitch right now, blaming the world and the afterworld for your troubles but I don't mind. I've met worst assholes in my unlife."

It's rather appropriate that before the Spooky Doom can claim another soul, he should first engage in some soul searching of his own.

Spooky Doom: "It's a little known fact, but we lil' Grim Reaper thingies are something like necromancers, bringing dead crowds back to life through epic matches inside the ring. If my actions gave one more guy a reason to live, then that's cool and totally in line with my powers. It'd be easy to just wash my hands of the whole matter and explain once more how I specialize in pro-wrestling and pro-wrestling accessories and work specifically towards claiming the souls of those who have none... But let's be honest. That'd be a chump move. Orphan is a boy that ain't right (I'll tell you what) and it's up to the Spooky Doom, the strongest hitting force in the world to make the ULTRATITLE a better, brighter place."

"So go on Orphan, feed me all that hate you've got festering deep inside the bowels of your stomach. Feed me Seymour, FEEEEEED ME- Oh Christ that was lame. Do over?"

Although a hired performer for the IWF, Spooky Doom is something of a newcomer to the FWrestling brand, so what better way for the lil' Phenom to get acquainted with the history of this great umbrella promotion than by visiting its archives? FADE TO... The libraries of the ESEN compound; no books but plenty of tapes, CD cases and even a few flashdrives to show us that the staff actually keeps up with new technologies! Spooky Doom is found looking through laminated posters of past FWrestling events, trying to put some faces on the names he's heard in the past. Also, he's talking to the camera. To you. The guys watching this- Okay let's cut this out.

Spooky Doom: "You wanna hate me? Buddy, you ain't gonna be the first. If that hate keeps you alive, I'll be the one who'll take that burden. I mean, who else will put up with the sadistic psycho known as Orphan? Doesn't matter, it won't lead you to winning the ULTRATITLE. Hatred don't win tournaments, hate don't bring dead bodies back to life and hate doesn't defeat the Reaper. Sucks to be you Orphan but them's the facts: Death is stronger than Hate. Boy did Fate screw you over pitting you against me for Round Three because that's a fight you cannot win. What'd you do, cause Fate's wife to blow her brains out right in front of him?"

"Because I want to address this rather obvious elephant in the room again. Namely, IS ORPHAN SERIOUSLY BLAMING THE SORROW OF LOSING HIS WIFE ON A 22 YEAR OLD GRIM REAPER THINGY??? And they call me delusional? Bitches be crazy, that's all there is to it. You might as well blame Fate or any other literary construct for your grief but I know you don't like that so let's all blame Spooky Doom! Nothing new for me and in the meantime, I'll be blaming senility for your broken ass reasoning. Yeah, everyone knows you turn senile right after passing thirty."

"No, no, it's okay! You can hunt me down all you want, because I can take it. Because I'm the hero the ULTRATITLE deserves, but not- No wait, I am the one it needs, nevermind. For the purpose of punching a badly painted clown with bad hair multiple times in the face, I am most certainly the hero this tournament needs right now. It's the return of the Goddamn Batman to action and I think we even have the whole "wife's dead so I'll just go bonkers" excuse from the villain, so unless Orphan considers his past multiple choice that makes me just the caped crusader to deal with the problem."

"Speaking of which, do you intend to mope and moan your way through the whole frikkin' tournament? Because that might get rather annoying rather quick. I want to say that I empathise with your plight but it's getting tiresome listening to you rant and rave about cutting your veins open without you actually doing it. Now you can finally shut up as Doom will finally take your soul. Excuse me if I was just a wee bit busy with the backlog from when my uncle repeatedly died on his job but I assure you this won't be the case with me. "

"For starters, I can't afford the vacation days."

There's a lot of talk coming from Doom but the lil' Phenom finds what he's looking for: past promotional pictures of previous ULTRATITLE events. The big ones, twenty-seven by forty inches, the kind you see next to movie posters on the subway station. Spooky Doom wanted to know what the past winners of the ULTRATITLE looked like.

Spooky Doom: "Here's the deal: as much as us Grim Reapers are concerned with the past, what with the swank mausoleums in our honor and elaborate funerary processions not to mention the whole business of dealing with dead people, it's mostly the future I'm worried about. No really, I'm not like the other Reapers; behind the jokes and the putdowns, I've always been genuine about wanting to save professional wrestling. It's not something you can do kicking everyone you meet in the head, but it is something I can only do by winning the ULTRATITLE."

"What'd I say last time about the importance of imagination? Well imagine yourself two to three years from now, at the next ULTRATITLE. You know it's gonna attract a crowd because the ULTRATITLE never fails bein' ridiculously awesome. Nope, problem was never over the tournament losing it's lustre but the guys it'd attract."

He pulls out laminated posters with each name that he mentions, all of which pictures of ULTRATITLE champions of the past. The images familiar to anyone who participated in the tournament by now, but only brought to the forefront of the camera's attention at this point in time.

Spooky Doom: "Here's Joey Melton, tall blond guy with blue skin and a dumb smirk. Hey, that's what he looks like here. Then there's Nova; bald dude, FU wrist tapes around his fists, boring. Next come Michael Manson, though not chronologically. I don't know him but for the love of all things Metal I can't imagine anyone wearing such a godawful bone dragon shirt and thinking it looks cool. No seriously, were dragon shirts ever fashionable at any point in time?"

"Nevermind that, just picture me standing amongst them. Lil' Grim Reaper thingy with my flame-etched mask and hood, sportin' this sleeveless skin-tight hoodie like a super-sentai from the projects. If the photograph's good, maybe we'll even make out the black Pacman ghost across my chest. Now this rugged dress code always into stress mode kinda has its way of attracting attention, doesn't it? And the next generation of rookies who'll fight for the ULTRATITLE, they'll notice too. They'll ask questions about what's a Spooky Doom and how'd a guy like him succeed in the grandest tournament of them all."

"You'll be there to tell 'em, Orphan. Because this is the story about how a brave young luchador bucked conventions and reached the top of the world challenging every preconceived notion associated with professional wrestling! Here's my solution: a brand new beginning where imagination and courage matters: dare to be bigger, dare to be more colorful, dare to bring more to this sport than any other challenger to the throne! Everybody wants to be a winner, so I see a choice between two guys serving as an inspiration for the nation and I ain't letting a stark raving mad psychopath become the poster boy for the new age of wrestling!"

"Hell, I don't even want to imagine a future with you at its head: the new breed of talent competing on tragedies, trying to outdo each other's tale of personal loss just to approach the level of insanity from the man who became king. No way I'm letting this be how our sport is represented! Lucky for me and everyone else, I got my wits and I got my skillz. I know what to do and I love what I do. I bring all that and more to the party, curing suicidal tendencies with tope suicidas. It's called lucha libre: the wildest and most colorful fighting style there ever came to be. I'm unliving proof that some of us rise up from our sorrows and become something amazing."

Enough with the posters: there isn't anyone like Spooky Doom and there probably never will: not a comedy gimmick but someone who passionately loves wrestling and everything that makes it great. Close-up on the Deadkid as he stands deep beneath the archives of the company.

Spooky Doom: "You never stood a chance at the tournament in the first place: you're not a wrestler, you're a grieving widower trying to make sense of a cruel world that repeatedly took a shit on your skull! Insane deadin' the pain in the head by kickin' brains dead; what we need is morphine for the Orphan, All American health care provided by the Spooky Doom, ask your doctor about wicked planchas and see how an Undead Superstar who hits harder than anyone else can help you change your outlook towards life! Side effects? Don't know me much do ya? I hit you head on, apply directly to the forehead. Head on, always lookin' straight ahead. And all that I see is the future of professional wrestling, with me at the top and people like me in the middle except they're nothing like me cuz we're all bringing it in our own special style. People like you can stay at the bottom, six feet under, down in the ground and food for the flowers. Thus does hatred turn to love again and that's the circle of life except that circle looks more like a Wheel of Doom coming down from the top rope. Life's funny that way, then you die. I'm Spooky Doom and I'll be your lil' Grim Reaper thingy for the evening, hope ya had a good one!"

He's got nothing left to do here. He never needed to be here in the first place. Everything Spooky Doom ever needed to achieve victory, he had all along. FADE OUT.
Last edited:

Seymour Almasy

New member
Oct 11, 2004

ORPHAN: You have any idea what grief is, Spooky? Any idea at all?

There’s no graveyard this time. Nor is there a funeral parlor, or a shed in which a casket is being built. In fact, there’s not a whole Hell of a lot of anything except the Spirit of ACW himself, a folding chair, and a black screen behind him. This time, at least, Orphan has the decency to carry his championship belt with him, draped firmly over his shoulder.

ORPHAN: Of course not. That’s a silly question. If you understood grief, my diminutive Grim Reaperish…thing, you wouldn’t be so callous as to make fun of the grieving. But what am I to expect from Death itself? You are a force of nature, essentially. You act because you must, without emotional and feeling. You aren’t USED to the doubts that are creeping into your mind as we speak. You don’t understand why your words lack the conviction that you usually possess. But do not worry, Spooky Doom. I will be kind and merciful to you, just this once. I’ll TELL you what you’re experiencing.

From beneath his chair, the Spirit of ACW pulls out a leather-bound book. As he speaks, he passes the tome back and forth between his hands, a calm and knowing smile on his face.

ORPHAN: That sinking feeling in your stomach, the doubts clouding your mind, the worry, the dread…it’s all grief, Spooky. It’s grief about your impending loss to me in the third round of the ULTRATITLE.

Though the premise seems…off, somehow, the conviction in the fal’Cie’s voice makes the words seem less ridiculous.

ORPHAN: Now, I know that must sound ridiculous to you, an emotionless, callous force, a being that cares only to bring death, but you don’t have to take my word for it! It’s all right here, in the works of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, a little tract called On Death and Dying. In it, she lays out what would colloquially come to be known as the Five States of Grief. I thought that, since Ms. Kubler-Ross’ work was so helpful to me in dealing with the tragedies of my life that you feel so free to mock, it might be helpful for you in dealing with your own impending tragedy.

The former Final Fantasy opens the book. True to his word, it appears to be dog-eared in places, with some pages scribbled in notations and other personal thoughts.

ORPHAN: Now, the first four of the five can come in any order. Some people experience them differently, but I’m going to give you the most common experience, Spooky. My experience. And in my experience, the first stage of grief is denial.

As he speaks, there’s a certain look in his eyes. Different from the conviction his painted face so often displays, it’s an odd sort of forthrightness that’s almost disarming.

Clearly, denial is a subject of which the Orphan has authority to speak.

ORPHAN: Pretty easy to understand, really. It’s a defensive mechanism. You refuse to believe cold, hard reality. I spent two months of my life in denial over Laura’s death, Spooky, and they were the two loneliest months that you can possibly imagine. Two months of blaming myself. Two months of sleeping in a bed two sizes too big for one person. When you’re in denial, Spooky, you can’t hide it. You can paper over it with smiles and jokes. You can pretend otherwise as much as you like, but the eyes tell the true story. Back then? Anyone who knew me could look into my eyes and know that I was full of **** if I told them anything other than the God’s honest truth. And now? I can look into yours, through your mask, and see the same damned thing.

As he fingers through the pages of the book, his face recoils, reacting to the words written there, both by the author and by his own hands, dredging up still more memories he wishes he didn’t have.

ORPHAN: You can tell me how confident you are until you’re skeletal in the face, Spooky, but I know better. The world watching on ESEN knows better. The fact is, very simply, you have never faced a man with my will. With my pedigree. With my refusal to just say die. You can talk about changing wrestling, about being a happy-go-lucky luchador who hits harder than any man alive…but really, who’s buying what you have to sell? Not I. Not my Party. Nor anyone who sees this all for what it is: bravado. Empty bluster from a man who can talk an, err, “entertaining” game, and yes, those were finger quotes around the word “entertaining.” I do suppose you’re a hit with your target demographic – namely the small children who likely do buy plenty of Spooky Doom masks, but if you honestly believe that pure LUCHA LIBRE power and Death can defeat pure seething hatred backed by a decade plus at the top of this industry…you’re in more denial than I can help you with, Doom.

The Spirit of ACW continues to thumb through the book, looking down for a few moments until he finds the proper page.

ORPHAN: After denial, second is anger. Ironic, since you’re telling me to feed you my hate. You play it off well, I’ll admit, but no matter how calm your façade, you can’t hide from me. You cannot hide your inner anger from a man who knows it so very, very well.

Another emotion he knows, very, very well. Anger is at the core of what Orphan is, the motivating force behind turning Seymour Almasy into an orphaned son of ACW.

And, so he believes, the feeling trickling through Spooky Doom’s veins at the prospect of having to go one on one with him.

ORPHAN: The questions and damnations are easy. “Why is this happening to me?” “I don’t deserve this!” I’ve been there, Spooky. I’ve thought every possible permutation you can imagine. Anger, though, doesn’t get you anywhere. It’s a temporary solace, my friend. You can blame who or whatever you want for our fateful meeting here, but the fact remains that in spite of your best efforts to convince me otherwise, it is not I who is damned by standing across the ring from you, it is you who are damned by standing across the ring from the Spirit of ACW.

Like clockwork, Orphan flips through his book a few more pages, fingers flying as he goes in a familiar rhythm.

ORPHAN: Third, my dear Reaper, is bargaining. Bargaining, you see, comes once you’ve realized that what is to come is inevitable. Once you get past your rage that it is here. Bargaining is how you cope next, because you start to make deals that can’t happen. You promise to be a better person at Death’s door, for example. I’m sure that’s a familiar one for you, Spooky. How many times have you heard it? Thousands? Tens of thousands? And yet, I’m sure, you’ve never quite understood it. How could you? Until now, you’ve never bargained for a thing in your existence!

It makes him angry, really. Angry that Spooky can be so blasé about the sorrow of others, about their suffering. At the same time, he knows it’s really not Spooky’s fault, of course.

But that little piece of logic has begun mattering less and less, the more Orphan thinks about his impending opponent…

ORPHAN: Mortals bargain, Spooky, because they want some degree of control over the uncontrollable. It lets them believe or pretend that they can do something about it. I’m sure you’ve already begun bargaining over the outcome of our contest. I can hear it now, “Please let me win! I’ll stop making references to awful commercials if I can only beat Orphan!” Or maybe, “Please, I’ll stop rapping if only I can advance one more round in this tournament!” But your defeat at my hands, Spooky, is as inevitable as, well…Death itself.

No matter how hard he tries, though, he can’t quite erase the words of the pint-sized Grim Reaper from his mind.

He hears them even as he tries to press onward. The insults. The easy way in which Doom disparages his emotions. His feelings.

His very being.

ORPHAN: Fourth? Fourth is depression. It’s the only one of the stages I don’t think you’ve entered yet, but don’t worry. You will. You’ll experience it as the minutes pass, one by one, until it’s the day of our scheduled contest. You will feel it to your very marrow as you see me walk in through the door of the arena, and you realize that no act of God has stopped me. You will realize that you, as scheduled, will be going one on one with a man who has listened to every single horrible thing you have said about him. A man who has stoically endured each and every hideous, unfeeling slight eagerly awaiting the moment where he can do things to you that would get him arrested on the streets.

Perhaps what makes Orphan most unique in wrestling is that he’s never managed to tune out the insults. No matter how often someone dredges up a wound, he still feels it acutely. To insult his Party is to insult him in a manner most grave.

And to mock his feelings about his ex-wife, about the most important person in his life?

Such is to court ruin.

And Orphan exists, in no small part, to ruin each and every person foolish enough to push those buttons in search of a psychological edge.

ORPHAN: In short, Spooky? The moment you realize just how ****ed you are? That’s when the depression kicks in. That’s when you wonder why you got yourself into this situation to begin with. Why you pushed the buttons of a man who you yourself called “crazy.” But no amount of wondering or depression will stop the contest from happening, Spooky. Time waits for no man. You know that well, of course, but how does it feel to know that you’ll be the one the clock’s ticking for? Can’t imagine you like it much, do you?

The smile on Orphan’s face is mocking, as is the easy shrug he offers after delivering the final question.

ORPHAN: Once you’ve gone through those four stages, Spooky Doom, all you are left with is the gateway to the rest of your afterlife. Once you have endured denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, you will finally come to grips with your fate. Like so many of your other poor victims, ripped from this mortal coil by terminal illness, you will achieve acceptance!

His arms spread wide, the book in his left hand and his eyes close, the memories of his own acceptances of tragedy flowing through his mind’s eye with ease.

The moment at his wife’s graveside, when he finally realized she wasn’t coming back.

Four years later, after having called ACW back for the umpteenth time after his near career-ending injury at the hands of Khristain Keller, only to find that his home had moved on without him.

And now, in the present day, his easy acceptance of every tragedy he visits upon another, justified by his utopian (or dystopian) vision of pro wrestling’s future.

ORPHAN: For you, acceptance will come in the middle of the ring in the third round of this glorious tournament. It will come when you realize that, while you are a capable competitor, I’m just that step faster. I hit that tiny bit harder. I can take that little, extra bit more pain. And when you are face-down on the canvas, on your hands and knees, with me poised mere seconds away from taking your death mask off with Merciless Judgment, you will close your eyes. You will know the end is here, Spooky, and you will accept your fate.

His head nods, and there’s a tiny smile on his face, an almost wicked smirk at the very idea of it, of a man who brings death and misfortune forced to accept that which he wreaks upon so many other innocents.

ORPHAN: There’s no shame in going out in the final thirty-two of this tournament, Reaper. No shame in losing to the man who will take the ULTRATITLE home with him in just a little over a month. No shame in having given it everything you have against seemingly insurmountable odds. Hell, I made a career of it, once upon a time. But the bottom line, my Grim Reaper? Acceptance is the only way out for you. Accept the hand you’ve been dealt. You claim that Fate’s unkind to me? I say that it is nothing short of the deepest irony that after you have cut so, so many of Fate’s threads, it is now the turn of a once-lonely man who stood at Death’s very door to cut yours.

With a resounding thump, Orphan slams the book shut, and lets it fall from his hands, where it rings out another loud sound as it crashes to the floor.

ORPHAN: The sooner you accept these things, Spooky Doom, the sooner you’ll be able to move on.


Seymour Almasy

New member
Oct 11, 2004

The quality of the picture upon fade-in is considerably less than it has been for the past several Orphan presentations, leading one to the simple conclusion that this…whatever it is to be has been taped and submitted to ESEN for dispersal to the masses by Orphan himself.

The casual feel is only heightened by the fal’Cie’s attire. There’s no Spirit of ACW Championship, no face paint, just a long-haired man in his early thirties in a t-shirt and jean shorts sitting in a perfectly ordinary hotel room.

ORPHAN: You know... something’s been bothering me, Spooky. Last time out, you asked me to give you my hate. And at the time, I didn’t think too much of it, but as I sit here and think about your request, I have to be honest with you on one crucial point of order.

His facial expression is sober, and his general manner is a far cry from the man who has been terrorizing both ACW and the ULTRATITLE Tournament in recent months. His voice is firm, but quiet, as if trying to get across the importance by simply being himself.

ORPHAN: This is going to come as a surprise, probably, so I hope you’re sitting down. Ready? Here goes.

The Spirit of ACW falls quiet, and nods his head a single time.

ORPHAN: I don’t hate you, Spooky.

Almost immediately, the Orphan sits up, bolt upright, hand covering his mouth in mock astonishment.

ORPHAN: I know it’s the in thing to do in our sport to say you hate people all the time, but I can’t quite summon the will to do so. Y’see, when you go through the **** I have in my life, you learn to reserve the word “hate” for those who truly deserve it. Men like Khristain Keller, who decided to try and terminate my career for funsies. And, well, if you really WERE the Grim Reaper, I’d hate you for taking the love of my life from me far before her time. But it’s that bit that bothers me, since, best I can tell…all you’ve ever wanted is for someone to believe you when you say that you are what you are. I do, I extend you that kindness, and what do I get in return? Mockery. Derision.

The bitterness that so characterizes most of Orphan’s words is back, and with a vengeance as he shakes his head, from side to side, in some combination of disappointment and disgust.

ORPHAN: So if you’re not Death, Spooky, what are you? Really, I can only think of one answer, and it’s pretty similar to the answer of who Leyenda de Ocho was: a young kid in a mask living his dream as a professional wrestler. In that case, I can’t really hate you, can I? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t like you, not one little bit, but I don’t hate you. And the reason for that is simple. You’re not the illness, Spooky; you’re a symptom of that illness. A symptom of a disease that has infected and crippled a sport I once truly loved.

The touch of wistfulness in the fal’Cie’s voice is hard to miss, a longing for days gone by. Whether they’re of being a beloved hero or simply a man who could compete without having to worry about being crippled, though, is anyone’s guess.

ORPHAN: But we’ll get there soon enough, Spooky. You mock me for being “emo.” Because I am sad about losing my wife, suddenly, my emotions are a source of amusement to you. You think it’s funny that I care about these things? You think the tragedies that have dotted my life are fodder for you to make fun of me? And yet, Spooky, you claim to be the hero of this tale! You want to be the man or Grim Reaper, whatever, that the fans cheer, and lo and behold, they do! I’m not a hero, Spooky. Not anymore. But nor am I the villain. No matter how many Spooky Doom masks or foam fingers they sell, no matter how many fans chant your name, no sales figures or crowd chants can change the simple fact that you are the villain of this story.

It’s a truth, at least to Orphan, that gives him conviction. When the heroes of the day are those who would mock and insult one for their personal tragedies, being the man called “villain” by the world sounds better and better by comparison.

ORPHAN: Heroes do not mock those who have suffered misfortune for the sake of catchy one-liners. The valiant and the just do not inspire those who want to be “just like them” by acting like an eighth grader trying to look cool in front of his classmates in a desperate hope to become one of the popular kids. What terrifies me about you is that you are so earnest in your desire to inspire the future that you apparently don’t even realize what you stand for! For a man who claims to want a world of pure wrestling and good triumphing, you talk an awful lot of ****, most of which makes marginal sense at best.

Once again, the Spirit shakes his head, patience with the Grim Reaper-alike called Spooky rapidly approaching its end.

ORPHAN: I came to the third round of the ULTRATITLE Tournament looking for a wrestling match. What I got was a twenty-two year old kid who, for no reason I can possibly fathom, decided that it would be a good idea to mock a man’s greatest sorrows. I know now that you’re not the Reaper, Spooky, because I cannot imagine the Reaper would be that much of a chicken**** to back down on calling himself such when confronted with a mortal who wants his vengeance for a death before its time. So that leaves me understanding you as what you truly are: a little masked punk searching desperately for relevance in this industry.

That fact, if anything, only seems to spur Orphan on. A brave battle with Death is something he can look forward to with pride, but that battle has been denied him.

Its substitute seems, at least to the fal’Cie, to lack the same panache.

ORPHAN: As I stated earlier, you’re a symptom of a larger problem. A boil on the ass of the wrestling industry, an avant-garde poseur who thinks he’s something unique when in fact he gives in to the same tired name calling and same foolish prattle as “legends” such as Joey Melton and Troy Windham. You’re just another in the parade of dick-measurers who wants to try and prove their superiority through insults and cute words rather than action. Your kind is EVERYWHERE, Spooky. Hell, the winner of our contest goes on to the fourth round to face a guy who proudly calls himself the “King of Sleaze,” and the eighteen year old man masquerading in a late thirty something body that is Chris Hopper. Do the fans cheer both these guys? Of course they do! But you know what? The crowd cheering you like you’re a hero doesn’t make you one. I may never be a hero again, Spooky. I may never hear their cheers at my back, but I’m okay with that. Because no amount of their cheering or bleating ever helped me sleep as well at night as I do now, knowing that I am a man of my word in a world full of those who only seek to tear others down for the amusement of the throng.

Conviction is a dangerous thing. It is that which turns a man who was once cheered by the same throng of people into a man who seemingly openly welcomes their hatred and uses it as justification for the path he walks.

ORPHAN: I can’t bludgeon Troy Windham for pandering to a crowd who loves hearing him talk about his favorite subject: himself. I can’t beat Joey Melton for…whatever in the name of Yevon it is that he does. I can’t even beat down Chris Hopper or Suite Pete. I can’t do any of those things – yet, anyway. I can’t do any of them yet because you, Spooky Doom, stand between me and all of my hopes and dreams for the future of this industry. You want to glibly talk about my ambitions for the future of wrestling being an emo contest? Here’s my real ambition. Here’s my real dream, you pissant.

The Spirit rises to his feet from his perch on the bed, glaring solemnly, defiantly into the eyes of the viewer at home.

I have a dream of a world in which I can go down to the ring and not get called things like “emofag” by some douche in the front row who thinks it’s cool because morons like you think it’s cool to mock my tragedies in their promos. I have a dream that my Party can sit front row and not be called whores by mouth-breathing sheeple because Chris ****ing Hopper decided it’d be a good idea to call my poor Chihiro a whore and a slut on ACW’s Chatter page. I HAVE A DREAM THAT WRESTLING BECOMES ABOUT WRESTLING AND NOT CHILDISH NAME CALLING THAT WE ALL SHOULD HAVE GROWN OUT OF BY THE SIXTH ****ING GRADE, AND FOR THAT, SPOOKY DOOM, YOU MOCK ME?! **** you, Spooky. **** you very, very much.

If it wasn’t personal when the round started for the fal’Cie, a viewer would be hard pressed to say now that it was anything but for the Spirit of ACW.

You are a hypocrite of the worst order, whether you realize it or not. You call for inspiring the future and a world all about wrestling out of one side of your mouth and demean me and my feelings in the other. You want this to be personal? That’s fine. I can play that game all day long, but there’s only one way it ends, and that’s with your head getting punted in and my arm raised in victory in just a few short days in front of the entire world.

For a moment, the Orphan smiles, a true, genuine smile, before pantomiming the fatal head punt. With two steps forward and a feigned kick, it’s obvious what he sees as the end of the road for one Spooky Doom.

I am a man of my word, when it is all said and done. I meant what I said earlier. I don’t hate you. If I hated you, you’d matter to me after the 1-2-3 in round three. I’d plot ways to make sure that you never wrestle again. I’d beat you down after the bell until the official warned me with a threatened reversal of the decision. Fact is, though? You’re simply not worth my time in that regard. After I beat you, I won’t waste a second thought on Spooky Doom, the Great Dead Hope for professional wrestling’s future. When this is all over, I move on with my life to deal with some other professional wrestler who thinks hitting on valets and/or calling them demeaning names is the epitome of high comedy and good behavior, and you’ll head back to the IWF a beaten man.

Just as quick as the smile appeared, it is gone, the fal’Cie back to his usual calm tone of voice and firm conviction. To listen to him is to hear a man so far beyond confidence that he seems to have simply accepted himself, his own thoughts, as the gospel truth.

The best part of all of this, as far as I’m concerned? After Merciless Judgment hits, you’ll become the exact thing that you are struggling so laughably hard to avoid becoming: a speed bump. A stepping stone.

With that proclamation, Orphan leaves the view of the camera. Only his voice remains before the scene fades to black, to give Spooky Doom what the fal’Cie undoubtedly believes is a prediction of an inevitable future.

You, in spite of your most fervent wishes and best efforts, will become an afterthought.



Mar 11, 2012
The truth laid bare

Spooky Doom: "It's not that I don't know what grief is; God knows how much my uncle's death traumatized me into actually damning my soul and turning myself into some manner of ill-defined but oddly specific undead soul collector in the field of pro-wrestling. It's about not letting the ULTRATITLE turn into a grieving contest."

Chair and black backdrop? Jolly African-American please, even when Spooky Doom isn't talking to scientists or exploring the bowels of the ESEN archives he still puts an effort in his presentation. Soooo... FADE TO 80's green screen backdrop with skulls and hooded reapers in the background, Spooky Doom standing at the forefront of the stage, mildly embarrassed by the cheesiness of his surroundings.

Spooky Doom: "I guess by now we can forget about any noble pretense you showed at the beginning of Round Two, can we Orphan? All that bullcrap about wanting to be the one who'd make wrestling safe for all the dreamers entering this sport... You just wanted to kick people in the head for your troubles! You don't have no dreams, you don't show any more ambition than that of causing misery to the world... Gotta say I'm kinda embarrassed for falling for the whole charade; call it a pigeon or a mark, there's nothing worse than a wrestler gullible enough to believe in someone else's publicity."

"But this is good, I need to strip away falsehoods before I start claiming your soul. Yup, just as the Reaper strips away your flesh to carry you to the hereafter, the Spooky Doom strips you of your lies before he eliminates you from the ULTRATITLE. Which is harder than it looks because I'm dealing with so many lies right now, it keeps me hella busy."

"First of all, call me blasé all you want but I ain't the one reading a book before the biggest match of his life. I mean, it's quite inspirational for the Literacy Club of America but you'd think there were a better time to catch up on your summertime reading then right before your match with the motha-effin' SPOOKY DOOM of FWrestling. Not to mention the fact that a book on mortality is pretty much wasted on a lil' Grim Reaper thingy: we're the ones who deal death, we're the ones assisting the dying and whenever one of us dies forever we pretty much come back six months later tops."

Spooky Doom is more of a manga dude anyways, his knowledge picked up from sundry conversations and journals from the Scientific American. So... it's not that he isn't cultured or anything, it's just that he's not a book dude.

Spooky Doom: "I mean... was there even a point to that presentation? I'm the guy with the key to Death's door, I'm the friggin' Reaper in this scenario! Like you said, mortals bargain; not avatars of Death reserved for the claiming of souls! I was super mad (well you got anger right) that you were missing the point so completely until it dawned on me: There aren't any Grim Reapers in ACW. Of course you had no idea what you were talking about: there are barely any Grim Reapers left in pro-wrestling period, apart from that one other dude in the tourny who dropped out in the first round but I'm talking real, dedicated Grim Reapers who love their work!"

"Let me guess: you probably follow me on IWF wrestling, is that it? ICWF? Fan from Shootfire Pro? Of course you are, and you've built a personal rapport from these television appearances where I astound fans with my undeath defying stunts and radical attitude. But that doesn't mean you know me. I wish you could but I don't think anyone can."

"Like I said last time visiting the archives of the company: I'm one of the most unique individuals to happen to the sport of professional wrestling. So much so that everywhere I go, I seek soulmates who share my vision for wrestling. Problem is, there aren't any. I've looked for so long now and still haven't found anyone I could call a friend..."

"And that damn circus clown cries about loneliness just because he can't have a girlfriend for two whole months. The hubris of some people. Or senility. I'm still not ruling out senility at this point."

Priorities for a real wrestling fan being somewhat different than from a normal human being; when Spooky Doom searches for a better half, he's looking for someone to share his world. But in the ring or out in the streets, Spooky Doom remains without equals. He's still a swinging bachelor, ladies!

Spooky Doom: "But what do I know, since reading a book turns you into a psychiatrist or something. Call him Doctor Or-Phil, because he's suddenly telling me how I feel and what's going on through my head. And here I thought I was this cold, unemotional force of entropy that couldn't care less about his victims; make up your goddamn mind, son! But I'll tell you how I feel, straight from the horse's mouth: pretty annoyed, teetering on insulted that some emo dork is putting words in my mouth! Look at your television, these days I'm there so often that if I do have a thought going through my head the public'll be the first to know. But nope, we've got the Fail'Cie to put his fraudulent spin on things. Makes sense: with all that hate you're spewing, you're a shoe in for a job at FOX news!"

Probably because of the static environment, Spooky Doom has a hard time standing still. Being so completely misrepresented by an opponent has it's way of unnerving the lil' Phenom, and it shows in how he's trying to walk to and fro inside of an enclosed booth. Making up his mind, he addresses his foe directly.

Spooky Doom: "Don't look down on lucha libre: it's the oldest persistant form of pro-wrestling with a history richer than anything found in the U.S."

"Don't look down on optimism: it's only what keeps the human race alive in the face of oblivion.

"Don't look down on those children who cheer my name: their souls will survive our encounter. You're messed up no matter what you do.

"Don't look down on Death: it, uhhhh... kills you."

"Once again, you're never going to win this match against me! That hate you're so proud of, that hate you've got painted across your face, it's the very thing preventing you from victory. And it's a hate from which I must liberate you as befits my duties as the Spooky Doom. Look at yourself, you're a short dude like me, weigh a little less than me; awwww, you just don't got the guns I've got but it's cute how you think you can hit as hard as me. But that hatred for the world is a weight that's keeping you down, preventing you from attaining the upper stratosphere upon which I fly."

"Speaking of hitting people; you don't quite understand how this whole hardest hitting force in the world thing works, do you? It's not just mass and size multiplied by acceleration... it's about striking with everything you've got. And all you've got to hit people with is hatred. Me? It's like I told "Classy" Mike C, I've been around the world. I've experienced not just hatred but sorrow, joy and wonders from which I could barely describe. You're stuck in "woe is me" mode and ignoring everything else except for your own private tragedy. You're a goddamn stupid emo twat and you just don't have the tools to hit people the way I do because of how limited your experience is, it's nothing but resentment. Or to put it another way, hard to pack mass when all you keep is loss. Get it?"

"So in essence, that hardest hitting force in the world bit you were trying to co-opt is basically an internalized Spirit Bomb in which instead of energy gathered from living beings you take emotions and personal experiences absorbed through your travels and internalize them into power held within yourself until that point in time where you do a sweet ass plancha on the other guy. Yes, I am using a Dragon Ball Z reference in the third round of the tournament, deal with it."

Told you so.

Spooky Doom: "Look, time will tell if my science is phony or not, all I can do is make it awesome. I'm here at the ULTRATITLE making things better, seeing this sport as more than what you'd readily expect and I'm even cleaning the place of it's worst elements. Meanwhile, you are reading a book. You are reading a book on dying, then you read the contents of that book on camera, then you're trying to apply the contents of that book... on Death itself? You lazy twat, you just went full senile!"

"And now that I've only just recently caught your latest video, I'm more convinced than ever! Believe it or not, I was just given this advance preview before going on air myself: what I saw was a hissy fit thrown by a thirty-plus year old man still mad about name calling! And you're calling me a kid? Your dream remains a dream: entirely unrealisable, so it's up to the twenty-two year old to act as the voice of maturity here. You can't change the world by kicking everything that offends you in it's head but you're just the emo twat to think that getting angrier, getting darker will settle your problems! So you stew and you brood and you make an even bigger stereotype of yourself... AND WE'RE THE ONES SUFFERING FROM HAVING TO WATCH IT ALL!"

"I get it, you don't fear the Reaper but I'll make you hear the Reaper: before you get insulted by what's going on between Hopper and Whealdon, concentrate on the foe standing right in front of you. You don't care anymore? Not worth your time? Brzzzt, wrong answer for anyone who seeks the ULTRATITLE crown. I've made my proofs long enough that even fools shouldn't doubt my credentials; I hit my foes with science, truths and near two-hundred pounds of muscle. Not a kick attached to a leg, everything that I am goes into your complete and utter annihilation. Mind and body together working for a single goal: I plow through your wavering soul and truthfully seek my vision in pro-wrestling by victory at the ULTRATITLE."

"But for the purpose of this match, I'm simply there to take your hate away. I know you've had a hard time deciding whether you hated me or not but let me assure you it was all irrelevant: I'm taking your soul regardless. You've been mad at this world for so long, mad at others simply because they're jerks- The problem is that you just can't live amongst normal people, isn't it? But rejoice, in some cultures Death is seen as a transformative process. When Orphan is laid to rest in Round 3, maybe something better can take it's place. I'm the Spooky Doom and it's been a good one, Barfin'.


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