Jason Ortiz
League Member
- Joined
- Feb 14, 2014
- Messages
- 10
- Points
- 0
Defiance Application Form
Fill this form out and post it on the Application board.
When it's finished, the Defiance roster will vote on whether to accept you. Getting accepted to the fed requires a net total of +4. So if you have one 'no', you'd need 5 'yes' to balance it out.
Handler Information
Name: Tim W
Email Address: twilms11@gmail.com
Preferred Method of Handling: Roleplay (Some Angle)
Best Way to Contact You: Forum, Skype (NW Rareform) or email
eWrestling Experience: Over 8 years of experience, I started in 1999 when I was about 12 years old in Middle School with friends from my school, that branched out into many feds. The bigger named feds I was envolved with were PWA (Class Champion), left PWA before I could finish for LOW (Lights Out Wrestling), there I became the Realm, X-Treme and World Champion. I had a small stint in PRIME as a female character for about 3 months.
How did you find Defiance? FWrestling.com
Writing Sample
My dream had ended approximately 8 years ago. I could picture my old self. Young. Reckless. Simply not taking life for granted. 8 years later I am a much more polished man. Dedicated father. Loving husband. An icon in my own eyes. The past was the past and I had to realize that. I left the wrestling business for a reason. Family. Friends. It was a decision that had changed my life. Have I forgot about it? Sure I have. Have I missed it? Most definitely. Not one day passes by where I don't think of how great it was to be, well... ME. Jason Ortiz. Crackhead. The persona of a self proclaimed crackhead who got high off the business. People claimed that I was destined for greatness. They claimed that I had all the skills to make it to the top. I tried my hardest over those years to make it to the top. I wasn't successful. I walked away in my prime to become a father and greater husband. But here I was, at the cross roads of my life. They called it a mid life crisis. A 33 year old man with something left to prove. It shall begin.
Location: Tacoma Washington (Hells Henchmen Club)
Time: 2:39 P.M PST
Inside of the ring I had portrayed myself as someone I never wanted to be outside of the ring. When I had left wrestling in the past, I changed my life dramatically. Here I was, over 3000 miles from my home in Miami Florida. I still could smell the warm ocean breeze from that far away. I missed it. I wasn't going to life. My family and my crew left in a matter of days. Not looking back. We had started over. From scratch. The club was reunited. A couple new faces added to our crew, but the majority of the originals were still here. Steven Scott, my best friend. The most loyal son of a bitch a guy could ask for. Every person in the world has this kind of friend. Someone who had your back no matter what the situation. We had found ourselves in a similar situation as in Miami. I was in debt. They had me by the fucking testicles.
"You know those fucks are charging 30% interest over this!" I yelled, slamming my fist on the club table. My glass of ice old Rainer beer spilled. I didn't care.
Across from me sat my best friend. My vice president.
"I can't believe they really think you are going to bend over backwards for them," Steven continued, but not before taking a sip off his Jack Daniels."A couple months ago those fucks were in the same boat, only we were making the demands."
Over the past couple of months the Hells Henchman Club had changed for the better. Our former president had retired. Living the life up in Arizona now. I had taken over. There wasn't much respect coming from the rest of the members as they sought that I was going to drive this club into abyss. That wasn't the truth. I wanted to change for the better. I wanted to make us more respected here in Washington. You could say I had visions of the Hells Henchman being the Mexican Cartel of Washington. We weren't into running drugs. Well we did do that, but that's besides the point. Our philosophy has remained the same. Help others who have helped you.
I stood up and walked my way over to the bar. I reached across the counter top and grabbed another Rainer beer from the cabinet. The fridge was out back, rotting in the cold winter's night. Fuck that thing. Broken pile of complete shit. Which had reminded me that our prospect Eric was suppose to fix it. Fucking kid.
"Will get through this Steven, and if it comes around on us, well.." I grinned at my good friend.
"Shit is going to get serious."
Steven laughed. Taking another sip of that delicious Jack Daniels. "When have we ever had anything go right for us in the first place Jason? Look at what happened in Miami. That shit can't happen like it did there."
"Errrrrrrrr...."
I had already knew what Steven was thinking about. Down in Miami when things were looking up for the club one of our own had turned on us. Stole from us then disappeared. We had no clue where that mother fucker David Wilder was. We had long thought that he might be up here in Washington with some distant relatives, that was not the case. Over a year later we had no leads and it sounds like he might be down in Peru.
"Don't even think about it Steven," I interrupted. "Let's focus on the future. Let's focus on this little situation that we have going on right now."
The large torso of Steven Scott arose from the table. A man that is over six feet seven inches can't possibly sit for that long.
"You're right Jason.."
"Right about what?" I stated, pointing over at the pool table.
Steven walked towards it, grabbing the cue ball and slamming it the rest of the balls on the table.
"Bro, what the fuck did you just say? You said let's focus on the future. On the situation. I was simply agreeing with you. Leave it at that. Time for you to get stomped again? Twenty on this game?"
He reached in his back pocket, slapping a crisp new twenty dollar bill on the table. I picked my favorite pool stick from the rack. I had my secrets on which sticks were the best, and had marked them individually with certain colors. Steven was getting ready to rack up, I walked towards him, nearly feeling like a midget in his shadows.
"One thing’s for certain," I said, putting a consoling hand on Steven's shoulder. "You can't win them all Steven, you simple can't. That twenty dollar bill should have left that dirty ass pair of jeans and went straight into mine. You don't even have a chance."
I could hear his distinct laugh from a mile away.
"....HaHaHa"
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
In the far distant we both had heard that. I dropped my stick. Reaching for my Glock 17 in my back pocket. Steven did the same. We both stared at each other for a couple seconds.
We really didn't have time to think. We both headed for the door. Steven reached his ginormous hands out and slowly began opening the door. I reached up and held it shut for a second.
"Think that is really them?" I asked coldly. My hands began to clam up.
He didn't even give me an answer. Steven ripped open the door which almost knocked me on my fucking ass.
There wasn't a soul outside. We both looked around, and at this point both of us had drawn our guns up. Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
"Wait. Look." Steven reached up and grabbed the note that was plastered on the Club House door. I couldn't read it, since he took it upon himself to turn his body in a 90 degree angle.
"Steven!" I grabbed his shoulder while reaching up for the note. He pulled away.
"...What the fuck does it say!" I demanded. My heart was about the explode at this point.
He took a couple steps back.
"Monday, February 24th."
"Two weeks," I continued. "Two fucking weeks is all that they are giving us..."
"We are fucked."
Wrestler(s) Information
Please take note of a couple things. It is highly likely that a few roster members will critique your moveset. Please don't be offended. We take that shit seriously here - we don't want a moveset full of finishers and a finisher so ludicrously over-elaborate that it couldn't be done in real life. This goes double if you're applying as a female wrestler. We also check to make sure your finisher(s) and theme song aren't currently being used. It's first come first serve when it comes to those.
And if you're one of those handlers who hates doing movesets, just say so and Jeff will do it for you.
Ring Name: Jason Ortiz
Height: 6'
Weight: 175lbs
Hailing From: Tacoma, Washington
Alignment: Face
Gimmick: Self proclaimed "CrackHead." Uses the persona of being a complete idiot (druggie) as a high for his wrestling addiction.
Wrestling Style: High Flyer
Three Weaknesses: Strength. Self Control. Technical.
Three Strengths: Agility. Speed. Dexterity.
MOVESET
Ten regular moveset moves:
1) Dragon Suplex
2) Standing Armbar
3) Forearm Smash
4) Flying Dropkick
5) Inverted DDT
6) Diving Elbow Splash
7) Low Leg Kick
8) Diving Splash
9) Head scissors Takedown
10) Baseball Slide
2-5 trademark moves:
1) Diving Crossbody
2) Missile Dropkick
3) Spinning Heel
4) Plancha
5) Dragon Sleeper
1 Finishing Move: The Rehabilitation (Swanton Bomb)
Fill this form out and post it on the Application board.
When it's finished, the Defiance roster will vote on whether to accept you. Getting accepted to the fed requires a net total of +4. So if you have one 'no', you'd need 5 'yes' to balance it out.
Handler Information
Name: Tim W
Email Address: twilms11@gmail.com
Preferred Method of Handling: Roleplay (Some Angle)
Best Way to Contact You: Forum, Skype (NW Rareform) or email
eWrestling Experience: Over 8 years of experience, I started in 1999 when I was about 12 years old in Middle School with friends from my school, that branched out into many feds. The bigger named feds I was envolved with were PWA (Class Champion), left PWA before I could finish for LOW (Lights Out Wrestling), there I became the Realm, X-Treme and World Champion. I had a small stint in PRIME as a female character for about 3 months.
How did you find Defiance? FWrestling.com
Writing Sample
My dream had ended approximately 8 years ago. I could picture my old self. Young. Reckless. Simply not taking life for granted. 8 years later I am a much more polished man. Dedicated father. Loving husband. An icon in my own eyes. The past was the past and I had to realize that. I left the wrestling business for a reason. Family. Friends. It was a decision that had changed my life. Have I forgot about it? Sure I have. Have I missed it? Most definitely. Not one day passes by where I don't think of how great it was to be, well... ME. Jason Ortiz. Crackhead. The persona of a self proclaimed crackhead who got high off the business. People claimed that I was destined for greatness. They claimed that I had all the skills to make it to the top. I tried my hardest over those years to make it to the top. I wasn't successful. I walked away in my prime to become a father and greater husband. But here I was, at the cross roads of my life. They called it a mid life crisis. A 33 year old man with something left to prove. It shall begin.
Location: Tacoma Washington (Hells Henchmen Club)
Time: 2:39 P.M PST
Inside of the ring I had portrayed myself as someone I never wanted to be outside of the ring. When I had left wrestling in the past, I changed my life dramatically. Here I was, over 3000 miles from my home in Miami Florida. I still could smell the warm ocean breeze from that far away. I missed it. I wasn't going to life. My family and my crew left in a matter of days. Not looking back. We had started over. From scratch. The club was reunited. A couple new faces added to our crew, but the majority of the originals were still here. Steven Scott, my best friend. The most loyal son of a bitch a guy could ask for. Every person in the world has this kind of friend. Someone who had your back no matter what the situation. We had found ourselves in a similar situation as in Miami. I was in debt. They had me by the fucking testicles.
"You know those fucks are charging 30% interest over this!" I yelled, slamming my fist on the club table. My glass of ice old Rainer beer spilled. I didn't care.
Across from me sat my best friend. My vice president.
"I can't believe they really think you are going to bend over backwards for them," Steven continued, but not before taking a sip off his Jack Daniels."A couple months ago those fucks were in the same boat, only we were making the demands."
Over the past couple of months the Hells Henchman Club had changed for the better. Our former president had retired. Living the life up in Arizona now. I had taken over. There wasn't much respect coming from the rest of the members as they sought that I was going to drive this club into abyss. That wasn't the truth. I wanted to change for the better. I wanted to make us more respected here in Washington. You could say I had visions of the Hells Henchman being the Mexican Cartel of Washington. We weren't into running drugs. Well we did do that, but that's besides the point. Our philosophy has remained the same. Help others who have helped you.
I stood up and walked my way over to the bar. I reached across the counter top and grabbed another Rainer beer from the cabinet. The fridge was out back, rotting in the cold winter's night. Fuck that thing. Broken pile of complete shit. Which had reminded me that our prospect Eric was suppose to fix it. Fucking kid.
"Will get through this Steven, and if it comes around on us, well.." I grinned at my good friend.
"Shit is going to get serious."
Steven laughed. Taking another sip of that delicious Jack Daniels. "When have we ever had anything go right for us in the first place Jason? Look at what happened in Miami. That shit can't happen like it did there."
"Errrrrrrrr...."
I had already knew what Steven was thinking about. Down in Miami when things were looking up for the club one of our own had turned on us. Stole from us then disappeared. We had no clue where that mother fucker David Wilder was. We had long thought that he might be up here in Washington with some distant relatives, that was not the case. Over a year later we had no leads and it sounds like he might be down in Peru.
"Don't even think about it Steven," I interrupted. "Let's focus on the future. Let's focus on this little situation that we have going on right now."
The large torso of Steven Scott arose from the table. A man that is over six feet seven inches can't possibly sit for that long.
"You're right Jason.."
"Right about what?" I stated, pointing over at the pool table.
Steven walked towards it, grabbing the cue ball and slamming it the rest of the balls on the table.
"Bro, what the fuck did you just say? You said let's focus on the future. On the situation. I was simply agreeing with you. Leave it at that. Time for you to get stomped again? Twenty on this game?"
He reached in his back pocket, slapping a crisp new twenty dollar bill on the table. I picked my favorite pool stick from the rack. I had my secrets on which sticks were the best, and had marked them individually with certain colors. Steven was getting ready to rack up, I walked towards him, nearly feeling like a midget in his shadows.
"One thing’s for certain," I said, putting a consoling hand on Steven's shoulder. "You can't win them all Steven, you simple can't. That twenty dollar bill should have left that dirty ass pair of jeans and went straight into mine. You don't even have a chance."
I could hear his distinct laugh from a mile away.
"....HaHaHa"
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
In the far distant we both had heard that. I dropped my stick. Reaching for my Glock 17 in my back pocket. Steven did the same. We both stared at each other for a couple seconds.
We really didn't have time to think. We both headed for the door. Steven reached his ginormous hands out and slowly began opening the door. I reached up and held it shut for a second.
"Think that is really them?" I asked coldly. My hands began to clam up.
He didn't even give me an answer. Steven ripped open the door which almost knocked me on my fucking ass.
There wasn't a soul outside. We both looked around, and at this point both of us had drawn our guns up. Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
"Wait. Look." Steven reached up and grabbed the note that was plastered on the Club House door. I couldn't read it, since he took it upon himself to turn his body in a 90 degree angle.
"Steven!" I grabbed his shoulder while reaching up for the note. He pulled away.
"...What the fuck does it say!" I demanded. My heart was about the explode at this point.
He took a couple steps back.
"Monday, February 24th."
"Two weeks," I continued. "Two fucking weeks is all that they are giving us..."
"We are fucked."
Wrestler(s) Information
Please take note of a couple things. It is highly likely that a few roster members will critique your moveset. Please don't be offended. We take that shit seriously here - we don't want a moveset full of finishers and a finisher so ludicrously over-elaborate that it couldn't be done in real life. This goes double if you're applying as a female wrestler. We also check to make sure your finisher(s) and theme song aren't currently being used. It's first come first serve when it comes to those.
And if you're one of those handlers who hates doing movesets, just say so and Jeff will do it for you.
Ring Name: Jason Ortiz
Height: 6'
Weight: 175lbs
Hailing From: Tacoma, Washington
Alignment: Face
Gimmick: Self proclaimed "CrackHead." Uses the persona of being a complete idiot (druggie) as a high for his wrestling addiction.
Wrestling Style: High Flyer
Three Weaknesses: Strength. Self Control. Technical.
Three Strengths: Agility. Speed. Dexterity.
MOVESET
Ten regular moveset moves:
1) Dragon Suplex
2) Standing Armbar
3) Forearm Smash
4) Flying Dropkick
5) Inverted DDT
6) Diving Elbow Splash
7) Low Leg Kick
8) Diving Splash
9) Head scissors Takedown
10) Baseball Slide
2-5 trademark moves:
1) Diving Crossbody
2) Missile Dropkick
3) Spinning Heel
4) Plancha
5) Dragon Sleeper
1 Finishing Move: The Rehabilitation (Swanton Bomb)
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