Post by deezy on Apr 26, 2016 12:28:58 GMT
"I fucking hope you won't die on us, New Japan," D.C. Wiland says to open his second NJFC promo. He's wearing jeans and the brand new t-shirt of The Usual Rudos, and is sitting on the apron of a training ring in his brand new Dynasty Wrestling School.
"You know by now that Tiger Mask Red and myself are world travelled athletes. Well, we were supposed to make one of our travels to the distant land of Nigeria. You know... In Africa. But the promoter, who was intelligent enough to book us in his feature bout, was probably probably still not intelligent enough to keep the show together. So... no Giants of Africa, no flight to Nigeria, and no kicking asses of two Cuban idiots for me and Tiger. It's a shame, and I'm pretty pissed off, so I really hope that when we fly our wonderful, expensive asses to Tokyo, we won't arrive to the news of you guys going under too."
He takes a sip from the bottle of water placed right next to him on the apron.
"But enough of that negative stuff and what could possibly happen, alright? I'm not sitting here, in my very own, brand spanking new wrestling academy, to talk about ifs and buts. I, like every good wrestler and businessman, deal in absolutes. So let's have some of those alright? One The Usual Rudos are the best tag team in the world already. Period. Two - me and Tiges are gonna walk the red carpet from our plane all the way to the Nippon Budokan, sign all the autographss, steal all the bitches, win the belts, and walk the carpet back to our plane. Three - NJFC will have the bragging rights over all the other promotions in Japan, hell, in the whole world, because it will have tag team champions others can barely dream of. Those are not just wishes and dreams, dear viewers, those are straight up facts. There ain't nobody in that tournament stopping us, especially not Timetus Mortuem.
Believe me, I put a lot of effort into scouting our first round opponents... Alright, no, I put about this much effort," he lifts the thumb and inded finger on his right hand up, showing very little space between them, "into finding out how your name is pronounced, so I don't screw it up in this promo, and also into finding out whatever the fuck that means. But I guess that effort was this much more," he shows the small gap between his thumb and index finger again, "than you did, boys. Timetus Mortuem doesn't mean shit. Timetus Mortem, without the U, means Fear Death, which is probably what you tried to achieve there. But you failed, sadly, and only confirmed what I had thought about you since your arrival to NJFC. Cyrus, Devin, you're nothing but posers."
He scoffs and nods his head.
"You know, that's the thing with the freedom in wrestling. All the big, tattoed kids who think they're tougher than nails, believe that they do whatever they want. But even in something as ridiculous as pro-wrestling, it's realism that always beats over the top shit. See, I don't try to co come up with a role in the ring, because I don't need to, I live all I say. I proclaim I'm the best damn wrestler and trash talker, because I'm hundred percet sure I am. Because I'm good and interesting enough as God made me. Or mom and dad, for that matter. Cyrus Riddle and Devin Hawk, however, are not. So they try to make up for their blandness with all this dark stuff they use to 'strike fear' in the minds of their opponents, and all the pseudo-Latin words they use when describing their arsenal. It's pretentious, guys. It's pathetic, even. Because in the end, when you cast all your talk about death and darkness aside, all you got left is another failed combat sports practicioner, and another guy who thinks he's a standout technical wrestler just because he knows that a Hammerlock is a wrestling hold and not a locker in a hardware store.
I mean yeah, I'm sure you'll give me and Tiger Mask Red a run for our money, especially after I've angered you so much with all the shit I've said. And I'm even sure that the strong style lovin' Japanese audience will give you a round off applause for all those hard hitting kicks you do, and that will definitely warm your dark rotten hearts. But that's just tidbits, just two or three little pieces that don't really put together the whole fucking puzzle, do they? When the ref lets the bell ring, he will search for my arms and the arms of Tiger Mask Red to lift into the in victory. Because me and my tag team pardna, we don't fear death, in whichever language it is presented to us, for one simple reason.
The Usual Rudos are magis fortis quam mortem.
Stronger. Than. Death."
With those words, we fade to black.
"You know by now that Tiger Mask Red and myself are world travelled athletes. Well, we were supposed to make one of our travels to the distant land of Nigeria. You know... In Africa. But the promoter, who was intelligent enough to book us in his feature bout, was probably probably still not intelligent enough to keep the show together. So... no Giants of Africa, no flight to Nigeria, and no kicking asses of two Cuban idiots for me and Tiger. It's a shame, and I'm pretty pissed off, so I really hope that when we fly our wonderful, expensive asses to Tokyo, we won't arrive to the news of you guys going under too."
He takes a sip from the bottle of water placed right next to him on the apron.
"But enough of that negative stuff and what could possibly happen, alright? I'm not sitting here, in my very own, brand spanking new wrestling academy, to talk about ifs and buts. I, like every good wrestler and businessman, deal in absolutes. So let's have some of those alright? One The Usual Rudos are the best tag team in the world already. Period. Two - me and Tiges are gonna walk the red carpet from our plane all the way to the Nippon Budokan, sign all the autographss, steal all the bitches, win the belts, and walk the carpet back to our plane. Three - NJFC will have the bragging rights over all the other promotions in Japan, hell, in the whole world, because it will have tag team champions others can barely dream of. Those are not just wishes and dreams, dear viewers, those are straight up facts. There ain't nobody in that tournament stopping us, especially not Timetus Mortuem.
Believe me, I put a lot of effort into scouting our first round opponents... Alright, no, I put about this much effort," he lifts the thumb and inded finger on his right hand up, showing very little space between them, "into finding out how your name is pronounced, so I don't screw it up in this promo, and also into finding out whatever the fuck that means. But I guess that effort was this much more," he shows the small gap between his thumb and index finger again, "than you did, boys. Timetus Mortuem doesn't mean shit. Timetus Mortem, without the U, means Fear Death, which is probably what you tried to achieve there. But you failed, sadly, and only confirmed what I had thought about you since your arrival to NJFC. Cyrus, Devin, you're nothing but posers."
He scoffs and nods his head.
"You know, that's the thing with the freedom in wrestling. All the big, tattoed kids who think they're tougher than nails, believe that they do whatever they want. But even in something as ridiculous as pro-wrestling, it's realism that always beats over the top shit. See, I don't try to co come up with a role in the ring, because I don't need to, I live all I say. I proclaim I'm the best damn wrestler and trash talker, because I'm hundred percet sure I am. Because I'm good and interesting enough as God made me. Or mom and dad, for that matter. Cyrus Riddle and Devin Hawk, however, are not. So they try to make up for their blandness with all this dark stuff they use to 'strike fear' in the minds of their opponents, and all the pseudo-Latin words they use when describing their arsenal. It's pretentious, guys. It's pathetic, even. Because in the end, when you cast all your talk about death and darkness aside, all you got left is another failed combat sports practicioner, and another guy who thinks he's a standout technical wrestler just because he knows that a Hammerlock is a wrestling hold and not a locker in a hardware store.
I mean yeah, I'm sure you'll give me and Tiger Mask Red a run for our money, especially after I've angered you so much with all the shit I've said. And I'm even sure that the strong style lovin' Japanese audience will give you a round off applause for all those hard hitting kicks you do, and that will definitely warm your dark rotten hearts. But that's just tidbits, just two or three little pieces that don't really put together the whole fucking puzzle, do they? When the ref lets the bell ring, he will search for my arms and the arms of Tiger Mask Red to lift into the in victory. Because me and my tag team pardna, we don't fear death, in whichever language it is presented to us, for one simple reason.
The Usual Rudos are magis fortis quam mortem.
Stronger. Than. Death."
With those words, we fade to black.
