OOC: I haven't done this in awhile, so bear with me. I just had an idea.
Where did it go wrong? Just when the f*ck did everything start to go south?
It had been a four and a half year career, almost to the day, and he'd yet to submit to an opponent. Four and a half god damned years of work, and Jonathan Marx takes away the last shred of dignity he had. He could hold on to one thing, and that was the fact that no matter what, through the injuries, the stress, the psychological trauma, he had never succumbed to the pain and screamed for mercy.
Not when he was burnt by a flaming steel cage in his first world title match.
Not when he was bombarded by tables, chairs, cookie sheets, or anything else in his many "hardcore" matches.
Not when subjected to the most painful submission holds the sport had ever known.
Not once, in 54 months of professional wrestling, had Troy Douglas ever been forced to tap out, submit, or utter the phrase "I Quit".
Until Destrucity.
He'll admit it, he underestimated Jonathan Marx. Not that he didn't know Marx wasn't talented, capable, or dangerous. No, he just honestly thought Marx didn't care.
Watching a man joke around with Brandon Jacobs can make you think that way. Big mistake.
He's replayed that match in his head countless times since that night in Chicago, analyzing and reanalyzing what went wrong. Other than the missed spear, nothing. On that night, Marx was plainly better.
On that ONE night. Not again. He won't let that happen, he never has.
Now, due to the luck of the draw, as some would call it, he's been thrown into partnership with the man who stole from his legacy. Douglas and Marx, together? It worked once before, inside two steel cages at War Games. It failed, too, when both men were unable to gain a shot a Jean Rabesque's TV Title.
What about this time?
Let's find out.
FADE IN...
Open on the plainest room one could ever conceive. Beige walls, a closed beige door, a plywood desk and a lucite chair are the only accoutrements in this room. It's a blank slate for the man straddling the chair, Troy Douglas, wearing his typical post-workout gear of loose black sweatpants, a grey Syracuse University Athletic Department t-shirt, taped wrists, and a grey bandana covering his dark brown hair. His face, as per usual, belies nothing of his true demeanor. Brown eyes bore deep into the lens of the camera as he takes a breath and prepares to speak.
DOUGLAS:
Well, well, well. Alex Borden and John...Q....Doe.
Glad to see both of you made it to the party alright. Now, let's get this started the right way.
Alex, I've very little to say to you, so I'll give it to you first.
Far as I can tell, you and I are pretty similar, Alex. Talented, motivated, prepared to take any measures to be the best. But, frankly, I could care less right now how similar we are. If you've been paying attention, my work in NEW has been less than stellar as of late. A loss to Marx and Travis Smith, an assisted victory over a guy who went on to be killed by the Ultimate Freaking Warrior, and the first and ONLY submission loss of my career at Destrucity.
I don't mean only just as in that it was the first time it ever happened. I mean the only time as in it has not and will NEVER occur again. I won't let it. Not after how far I've come back from.
So, Alex, I carry no ill will toward you. But, far as I can see, you'll be on the opposite side of the ring from me, and that fact alone makes you my target. After RAUCOUS, best o' luck to ya, kid. But in West Plains, you're going to have to be...how should I put this?
Ah, I've got it.
Sacrificed for the cause.
You can wait in line, Alex, because I've got Rabesque in my sights and I can not and will not stop until I strap that World Championship around my waist. So for now...
Sucks to be you.
Now, on to that cornucopia of wisdom, that bastion of knowledge, the ever loving idiocy that is the life and times of John Doe.
John, for a guy who thinks he can trade sarcastic barbs with the best of 'em, you've certainly got a lot to lose. Now, I know that you spent some time in an institution, so I'll keep this reeeeeeaaalll slow for ya, okay, John?
MARX...
WAS...
MAKING...
FUN...
OF...
YOU.
Get it? Got it? Good. You don't need to go off on verbal diatribes about how Marx is British and Communist and "NOT GOOD". Jon Marx talks a lot, that's his game, take that from a guy who has been through the wars with him for a good long while now.
Believe me, John, don't try and talk back. It doesn't work.
Now, on to your previous comments about how I'm "washed up" and "an embarassment".
Hello, McFly? Anybody home?
You don't want to walk down that deep, dark alley kid. I've been called a lot of things in this business, John. I've fought a lot of battles, and I've lost my share and won my share. I've been beaten, battered, and broken a whole hell of a lot more than you have kid, and I'm still here, better than I ever have been.
John, next time you recover from severe spinal column damage, head trauma, ankle, shoulder, and elbow injuries, severe ligament damage, and Post Mortem Depression Syndrome, give me a call.
Until you've walked in my shoes, you have no god damned right to call me anything, Doe. Until then, you always be, in my opinion, an upstart, green as all sh*t, eyes too big for his stomach little punk who tries to talk a big game just so he can make himself feel better when he goes up against the REAL elite of this industry.
You talk about the men you've retired; Watson, Young, Savage, and the other men you CLAIM to have ended. The ones you've actually retired, scrubs the lot of them, not a half-thimbleful of natural ability combined between those glorified jobbers.
Gospel truth, John. That's all it is.
This time, going after Jon Marx and I, you may have written the big check that you won't be able to cash. I wouldn't say anything else, John, for fear of saying something that may get you into real big trouble. I'm not planning on suffering any more defeats, Doe. At RAUCOUS, your fall begins a chain of destruction.
It's my turn to shine, you can just wait behind Borden, Mr. Foot-In-Mouth.
So, if John Doe equals God, I guess you can just call me an atheist. Best of luck to you to prove it, you megolomaniacal little sh*t. Best of luck.
If you really are, may you smite me where I stand right now.
...
See you at the end of the road, John. Your exits coming up.
...FADE OUT