And so, one match into the Dupree Cup had left Billows feeling a sense of accomplishment. He’d represented the Legacy he held so near and dear to his heart, and he’d represented well. He and Turk had actually worked very well as a cohesive unit, and as was to be expected, Turk was there to watch Billows’ back when The Young Lion hit the Pennsylvania Plunge and made the cover for the three-count. In the end, Billows hadn’t simply walked out of the arena with a big win…he’d also carried with him a newfound respect for Turk. Love had conquered animosity. Their mutual infatuation with all things LoC had overcome their mutual disdain for one another. That’s not to say that Billows and Turk would be shooting the **** over a couple of brews from here on out, but at least now they could be in the same bar without going at one another’s throats like a couple of pissed off pit-bulls.
Heading into match two, Billows couldn’t help but to feel extremely confident. He’d never heard of his opponent, and he had yet to speak to anyone who had heard of him. While this was terrific for his self-confidence as far as the match itself went, it sure didn’t make for the most interesting of interviews. In fact, with so little information on his opponent, Billows feared this promo would be something of a dull one.
Never fear, however, for he was currently scribbling away in a little pocket notebook, making a list that would certainly catapult this promo into the realm of UUUUUUNNNNNFFFFFORGETABLE!!!
“Epidemic…mudslide…” Billows was thinking out-loud.
“Ahem” The cameraman tried for Billows’ attention.
Billows didn’t even look up from the notepad. He was completely oblivious to his surroundings (a local hole in the wall restaurant). Instead, he shoveled a big spoonful of his pasta into his mouth before he continued writing.
“…let’s see…”
“AHHHHHEM HHHACK HACK!” The cameraman must have taken a course in dramatics.
Billows looked to his right with a frustrated sneer before noting the cameraman.
“OH! Well, hello there! Man, I thought you were just some cranky old guy who needed a lozenge,” Billows grabbed his plate, offering it forward, “Rigatoni?”
We watched as the cameraman shook his head from left to right.
“No?” Billows frowned, setting the plate back down, “Shame, you really don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
A few moments of silence passed upon the cameraman not having a response to offer Billows. Then a few more seconds of silence, with Billows yawning and looking bored before proposing a question.
“Soooo…that thing on? Or are you just standing there and pretending like it is?” Billows smirked, making reference to the camera.
“It’s o-“
Billows cut the cameraman off, “Rhetorical question, duder.”
The cameraman quickly closed his mouth, and it was time for the ooey-gooey goodness of a bonafide Billows promo!
“So, here I sit, a little beat up, a little bruised, a little bit black and blue. But other than that, I’m feeling pretty damned good, and why shouldn’t I be? I mean, everybody saw Turk and I completely OWWWWN WildStar and Lone Wolf, and this week in the Dupree Cup, I’m on singles duty. That’s frickin’ great news as far as I’m concerned, because as much as I do or don’t like Turk…The Young Lion likes to be the king in the ring, and that’s a bit easier in singles competition.
“But as ecstatic as I might be, I can tell you one person who is dreading this round of the Dupree Cup. His name is The Brazilian Disaster. This guy must be ****ting his little Brazilian britches because he’s been harder to find than Mr. Bin Laden. I can’t find any dirt on this fellow, and I can’t find anyone to find any dirt on him. All I know is that from what I’ve seen of him in the ring, which isn’t much and doesn’t need to be much—he’s just not that impressive. Sorry, hondo, but with a name like The Brazilian Disaster, I’m pretty sure you really weren’t expecting to have too great of a career.”
Billows paused and took a giant sip of his Diet Cherry Coke. He slurped on it until it made that empty-sound that empty drinks make. There’s probably a better description for the sound than ‘that empty-sound that empty drinks make,’ but we can’t all be Stan Lee and spell out the cool sounds we hear.
Billows turned back to the camera, “The Brazilian Disaster. El oh el. You know, I’ve been trying to figure out if that’s supposed to strike fear into your opponents' hearts, or if you’re actually some kind of wrestling-project that Brazil put money into and you turned out to be some kind of disaster, subsequently bringing your homeland oodles and oodles of shame. The Brazilian Disaster…
“Maybe I’m totally crazy here, but Mudslide or Hurricane or Drought are all better names than The Brazilian Disaster, and they’re all the same thing as A Brazilian Disaster. I can see why you might not use Epidemic as a ring-name, but Mudslide?! That’s the best name I’ve heard since Typhoon and Earthquake!” Billows grinned.
“But really, I’m simply drawing conclusions, and that’s not normally like me. Not that you gave me much to go off of, buuuuut, it isn’t fair for me to sit here and make fun of your name for the simple reason that I’ve got nothing better to make fun of. So, I guess I’ll just be blunt and make my damned point already...
“Is ‘The Brazilian Disaster’ the name you want to be known as for the rest of your career?
“Because I’m about to make you famous.”
__END__
