Roleplay period starts on Monday, April 23 and ends Sunday, April 29. 2 roleplay max in this round.
Round 1: Jacob McKail vs. Grim Reaper (j)
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Jonathon Winter
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"The Jagged Edge"
I thought I was done with professional wrestling.
No. That's not right at all. I thought professional wrestling was done with me.
I tell myself every ******* day that it's a good thing that I'm out of the business, that I'm clean of the drug that as all but destroyed my mind, body and soul. But it's bull****. The poison is still running through my veins and I'm still hooked on the drug however much I lie to myself.
I'm an addict without money.
I'm a junky without a dealer.
I'm Jacob McKail.
6[SUP]th[/SUP] April 2012
I hear heavy breathing long before I hear him grunt, “You hear?”, from some place behind me.
I turn to see Walt standing in the doorway of his bar with a stupid grin slapped across his fat face. I notice he has that same ******* twinkle in his eye that often equates to mischief or a poorly thought out scam. Whatever the hell it is, I just know I ain't gonna like it.He takes a mouthful of coffee and allows the remnants to drip freely from his moustache.
“It's been all over the TV,” he says. “The Internet is on fire with this ****, man.”
“What the **** is the Internet?” I reply. He laughs. I'm only partly joking. I ain't buying whatever the hell he's selling and I've found it's best all round if I just humour him. He is my boss – and landlord – after all.
He grins and takes another mouthful of coffee.“The Ultratitle mean anything to you?”
My gut churns. “No,” I lie.
“It's a wrestlin' tournament set up by Fwrestling.com and ESEN,” he explains. “A half million dollar cash prize goes to the winner...”
“Yeah?” I ask, faking interest. I know what's coming, I can see it a mile away. Another money-making scheme that's gonna turn to dog**** in his hands , but this time the ****er's trying to drag me along for the ride.
“If I front you the money to get you trained up,” he prompts, “you think you've got a shot?”
“Those days are long behind me,” I tell him, keeping my eye on the rowdy party in the far corner of the bar. Spilt drinks and raised voices; sure signs of future trouble – especially in a place like this.
“Don't give me that ****,” he says. “You were at the top of the industry! You were a ******* World Champion for christssake!”
I shake my head, refusing to succumb to flattery. “I just ain't got it in me any more, boss.”
“Bull****!” He exclaims, slamming his coffee mug down on the bar aggressively. “I see you whenever there's trouble in here. You still got that edge, you still got that ******* mean streak. Sets you apart from all of the other assholes I got here workin' for me!”
“Hey!” Jimmy yells from across the bar, ducking under the bathroom door frame. Six foot eight inches and three hundred pounds of pure ****ing idiot.
“I didn't mean you, Jimmy!” Walt lies, his voice generously dipped in false sincerity.
Jimmy buys it in silence and takes up a stool by the bar, facing outwards. I hope he's noticing the same trouble brewing in the far corner of the bar I did moments before, but I catch him staring at the group of wild grandma's sitting close by and shake my head. That boy's all kindsa ****ed up in the head.
“So whadda ya say?” Walt persists.
Smashed glass and angry voices thankfully cut in and I break free from the conversation to do my job; to crack some skulls and keep the peace.
“We'll talk about this later!” I hear Walt shout at me as I go.
I ignore him and signal for Jimmy to get off his fat ass and give me a hand. I also make a mental note to try and avoid Walt for the rest of the night, hell, avoid him until the ******* stupid idea leaves his brain and he moves along to his next scam - one that hopefully doesn't involve me.
At the back my mind, however, the question pops up right out of the blue, taking me by surprise: what if? What if I take him up on his offer? What if I make one final run at it?
I push the thoughts out of my head and absently lock the trouble causing up in a tight crossface chicken wing. He falls limply into unconsciousness within a matter of moments. As I'm dragging the idiot out to the parking lot, I try to ignore the widening smirk crawl across Walt's face and I know right then this ain't something that's just gonna go away.
Now
I'm sitting in the locker room with my head buried in my hands. My old wrestling tights are digging into my waist and I'm worried it'll restrict my movement some in the match that lies ahead. Evidently, I've put on a couple of pounds since the last time I wore them.
My gut churns and bowels loosen. I don't know what I'm more concerned about; the three hundred pound hired thug sent to watch over me or what lies ahead - my first match back in just under two years.
I ain't ready.
But I'm getting' a little ahead of myself ain't I? The hired thug? His name's Charles. Ex-Navy Seal or some ****. I didn't bother paying much attention to him listing his credentials – or atrocities – to scare the **** out of us all.
The ****er had been sent here to make sure I did something stupid, like get the hell out of town, by Mr. Nalton, the equally mean ****er Walt owes money to.
******* it, Walt! Why do you have to be such a ******* **** up?
I laugh to myself manically at the whole ridiculous situation and lean back against the reassuring coldness of the locker room wall. Charles is glaring at me – probably has been the whole damn time.
“You better not be losing it, boy!” He growls.
I ignore his threats and continue laughing. Forced back into the ring pretty much at gun point by the criminal your boss owes money to is just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of. Yet here I am. Right in the ****ing middle of yet another cluster **** I have no control over.
So I focus on the Ultratitle. I focus on the first round of the tournament. I focus on The Grim Reaper (the irony doesn't escape me). And I focus on the exact ways I'm going to tear him the **** apart.
They're never gonna let me back in the ring again after what I do to this ****wit tonight.
I thought I was done with professional wrestling.
No. That's not right at all. I thought professional wrestling was done with me.
I tell myself every ******* day that it's a good thing that I'm out of the business, that I'm clean of the drug that as all but destroyed my mind, body and soul. But it's bull****. The poison is still running through my veins and I'm still hooked on the drug however much I lie to myself.
I'm an addict without money.
I'm a junky without a dealer.
I'm Jacob McKail.
***
6[SUP]th[/SUP] April 2012
I hear heavy breathing long before I hear him grunt, “You hear?”, from some place behind me.
I turn to see Walt standing in the doorway of his bar with a stupid grin slapped across his fat face. I notice he has that same ******* twinkle in his eye that often equates to mischief or a poorly thought out scam. Whatever the hell it is, I just know I ain't gonna like it.He takes a mouthful of coffee and allows the remnants to drip freely from his moustache.
“It's been all over the TV,” he says. “The Internet is on fire with this ****, man.”
“What the **** is the Internet?” I reply. He laughs. I'm only partly joking. I ain't buying whatever the hell he's selling and I've found it's best all round if I just humour him. He is my boss – and landlord – after all.
He grins and takes another mouthful of coffee.“The Ultratitle mean anything to you?”
My gut churns. “No,” I lie.
“It's a wrestlin' tournament set up by Fwrestling.com and ESEN,” he explains. “A half million dollar cash prize goes to the winner...”
“Yeah?” I ask, faking interest. I know what's coming, I can see it a mile away. Another money-making scheme that's gonna turn to dog**** in his hands , but this time the ****er's trying to drag me along for the ride.
“If I front you the money to get you trained up,” he prompts, “you think you've got a shot?”
“Those days are long behind me,” I tell him, keeping my eye on the rowdy party in the far corner of the bar. Spilt drinks and raised voices; sure signs of future trouble – especially in a place like this.
“Don't give me that ****,” he says. “You were at the top of the industry! You were a ******* World Champion for christssake!”
I shake my head, refusing to succumb to flattery. “I just ain't got it in me any more, boss.”
“Bull****!” He exclaims, slamming his coffee mug down on the bar aggressively. “I see you whenever there's trouble in here. You still got that edge, you still got that ******* mean streak. Sets you apart from all of the other assholes I got here workin' for me!”
“Hey!” Jimmy yells from across the bar, ducking under the bathroom door frame. Six foot eight inches and three hundred pounds of pure ****ing idiot.
“I didn't mean you, Jimmy!” Walt lies, his voice generously dipped in false sincerity.
Jimmy buys it in silence and takes up a stool by the bar, facing outwards. I hope he's noticing the same trouble brewing in the far corner of the bar I did moments before, but I catch him staring at the group of wild grandma's sitting close by and shake my head. That boy's all kindsa ****ed up in the head.
“So whadda ya say?” Walt persists.
Smashed glass and angry voices thankfully cut in and I break free from the conversation to do my job; to crack some skulls and keep the peace.
“We'll talk about this later!” I hear Walt shout at me as I go.
I ignore him and signal for Jimmy to get off his fat ass and give me a hand. I also make a mental note to try and avoid Walt for the rest of the night, hell, avoid him until the ******* stupid idea leaves his brain and he moves along to his next scam - one that hopefully doesn't involve me.
At the back my mind, however, the question pops up right out of the blue, taking me by surprise: what if? What if I take him up on his offer? What if I make one final run at it?
I push the thoughts out of my head and absently lock the trouble causing up in a tight crossface chicken wing. He falls limply into unconsciousness within a matter of moments. As I'm dragging the idiot out to the parking lot, I try to ignore the widening smirk crawl across Walt's face and I know right then this ain't something that's just gonna go away.
***
Now
I'm sitting in the locker room with my head buried in my hands. My old wrestling tights are digging into my waist and I'm worried it'll restrict my movement some in the match that lies ahead. Evidently, I've put on a couple of pounds since the last time I wore them.
My gut churns and bowels loosen. I don't know what I'm more concerned about; the three hundred pound hired thug sent to watch over me or what lies ahead - my first match back in just under two years.
I ain't ready.
But I'm getting' a little ahead of myself ain't I? The hired thug? His name's Charles. Ex-Navy Seal or some ****. I didn't bother paying much attention to him listing his credentials – or atrocities – to scare the **** out of us all.
The ****er had been sent here to make sure I did something stupid, like get the hell out of town, by Mr. Nalton, the equally mean ****er Walt owes money to.
******* it, Walt! Why do you have to be such a ******* **** up?
I laugh to myself manically at the whole ridiculous situation and lean back against the reassuring coldness of the locker room wall. Charles is glaring at me – probably has been the whole damn time.
“You better not be losing it, boy!” He growls.
I ignore his threats and continue laughing. Forced back into the ring pretty much at gun point by the criminal your boss owes money to is just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of. Yet here I am. Right in the ****ing middle of yet another cluster **** I have no control over.
So I focus on the Ultratitle. I focus on the first round of the tournament. I focus on The Grim Reaper (the irony doesn't escape me). And I focus on the exact ways I'm going to tear him the **** apart.
They're never gonna let me back in the ring again after what I do to this ****wit tonight.