Post by Arlo Rosabel on Feb 25, 2018 7:20:33 GMT
"For what profits a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul”
It was never in the cards for Arlo Rosabel to become a professional wrestler, just like he had never fit in during high school he never thought he would have fit in within the professional wrestling business—and how was he supposed to? An immigrant from Ireland, pale, rockstar hair which caused him to be mistaken for a girl for most of his life. Oh! Not to mention he was barely 190 pounds soaking wet. One thing Arlo was good at? Betting on himself, and so his parents had sent him away with a pocketful of cash and his dad’s old truck.
Somehow he had found himself in Mexico. Somehow he had found himself a championship. Now, somehow he found himself in a juniors tournament with one of the best fields in wrestling. So no big deal, right?
The old truck had been traded in for a Jeep Cherokee and he basically lived out of it now. As he headed up the California coast, he found a quiet spot overlooking the sea where he sat with his knees pulled put to his chest. The curly hair was pulled back (best it could be) with a headband. His plastic spoon dipped down into the last cup of jello.
The trip hadn’t went well to see his parents. While he was happy to see them—they were not happy with the circumstances surrounding the championship Arlo had won within the confines of ACM in CWC. Arlo won, hoisted the title, celebrated and didn’t look back from there.
Little did he know all eyes were on him as he walked away. Because he was surrounded by one infamous group that caused the controversy.
The Conglomerate.
“Ye’ surround yerself with bad people, Arlo.” She had tossed the bowl of stew in front of him with such velocity he had to stop it. His father stoic, not really saying a word. “And git this off the damned table!” She picked up his Azteca Championship and banged it onto the kitchen counter instead of the table.
Arlo shifted on the sandy knoll as he prodded the jello and then looked back up to the sunset. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced the internal conflict of aligning himself with The Conglomerate, the first was when the former champion tweeted him, but he tried to explain to his fiery Irish mother why he would do such a thing.
“I told ya’. Before I know’ed it they took me under their wing. Nobody else was reaching out. Nobody else was willing to take a chance on me.” He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Sitting on the knoll he wish he had taken some of the soup with him. “I figgered that’s good enough for me. It should be good enough fer’ yous.”
But it wasn’t…
And that’s what made the Fighting Spirit Tournament so important.
“Lotsa folk gonna be joining this and sayin’ why they gotta’ win and this an’ that,” Arlo told a camera, holding the Azteca Championship brazenly on his shoulder. “I’m tellin’ yous THIS here is my stage. I’m not about to be one of those wrestlers ya’ look over and not know who he is. I’m about to show you all who I am, and what I am all about and it starts with Lisa Foster, but don’t think I don’t have my eye on the rest of ya.”
As he sat there on the knoll he ran down the opponents in his head just as he had recited them in his promo.
“Dom DiBoba, Taka Shinobu. Mike Kelly. Konrad Raab. Craig Anderson. I know ‘em all. I know what they can do, and when folk look at this list they won’t figger me into the equation… but I got this here belt for a reason, and I have… other reasons I need to make a run in this thing…”
That’s where he paused. That’s where the sun fell on the knoll. That’s where he and his mam would continue to argue because he was running with The Conglomerate.
“They aren’t good people, Arlo. You’re gettin’ caught up in this and you don’t know who you are… what profits a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul?” She ignored how hard Arlo rolled his eyes and let his spoon clang into the ceramic bowl.
“There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing.” Arlo decided nearly perfectly as he had stood up. “I’m a champ, mam. I’m a champ and that’s the way it’s gonna stay, and that’s the way it’s gonna’ be!”
This had led him to the knoll, and this had led him to how he finished up his promo as he stood in front of that camera with the ACM backdrop behind him, he tossed his hair wildly out of his face.
“No matter how much it triggers these people, I’m doin’ this under the name of The Conglomerate. I’m doing it in the name of ACM, and I’m doing it for ARLO. ROSABEL. I know the names who made a damn name for themselves here in Japan. I know who has wrestled under the NJFC banner, and I promise at the end of the day, you all are going to know that I belong here too!”
Finally, the promo was over. So was his visit and his plastic spoon scraped the bottom of the cup of jello. He crushed it in his hand and then pushed himself up until the light faded. The light was gone, but Arlo felt it burning inside of him. He wanted the Azteca Championship so he took it. He wanted the Fighting Spirit Tournament… so he was going to take it.
"For what profits a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul.”
Everything.
It was never in the cards for Arlo Rosabel to become a professional wrestler, just like he had never fit in during high school he never thought he would have fit in within the professional wrestling business—and how was he supposed to? An immigrant from Ireland, pale, rockstar hair which caused him to be mistaken for a girl for most of his life. Oh! Not to mention he was barely 190 pounds soaking wet. One thing Arlo was good at? Betting on himself, and so his parents had sent him away with a pocketful of cash and his dad’s old truck.
Somehow he had found himself in Mexico. Somehow he had found himself a championship. Now, somehow he found himself in a juniors tournament with one of the best fields in wrestling. So no big deal, right?
The old truck had been traded in for a Jeep Cherokee and he basically lived out of it now. As he headed up the California coast, he found a quiet spot overlooking the sea where he sat with his knees pulled put to his chest. The curly hair was pulled back (best it could be) with a headband. His plastic spoon dipped down into the last cup of jello.
The trip hadn’t went well to see his parents. While he was happy to see them—they were not happy with the circumstances surrounding the championship Arlo had won within the confines of ACM in CWC. Arlo won, hoisted the title, celebrated and didn’t look back from there.
Little did he know all eyes were on him as he walked away. Because he was surrounded by one infamous group that caused the controversy.
The Conglomerate.
“Ye’ surround yerself with bad people, Arlo.” She had tossed the bowl of stew in front of him with such velocity he had to stop it. His father stoic, not really saying a word. “And git this off the damned table!” She picked up his Azteca Championship and banged it onto the kitchen counter instead of the table.
Arlo shifted on the sandy knoll as he prodded the jello and then looked back up to the sunset. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced the internal conflict of aligning himself with The Conglomerate, the first was when the former champion tweeted him, but he tried to explain to his fiery Irish mother why he would do such a thing.
“I told ya’. Before I know’ed it they took me under their wing. Nobody else was reaching out. Nobody else was willing to take a chance on me.” He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Sitting on the knoll he wish he had taken some of the soup with him. “I figgered that’s good enough for me. It should be good enough fer’ yous.”
But it wasn’t…
And that’s what made the Fighting Spirit Tournament so important.
“Lotsa folk gonna be joining this and sayin’ why they gotta’ win and this an’ that,” Arlo told a camera, holding the Azteca Championship brazenly on his shoulder. “I’m tellin’ yous THIS here is my stage. I’m not about to be one of those wrestlers ya’ look over and not know who he is. I’m about to show you all who I am, and what I am all about and it starts with Lisa Foster, but don’t think I don’t have my eye on the rest of ya.”
As he sat there on the knoll he ran down the opponents in his head just as he had recited them in his promo.
“Dom DiBoba, Taka Shinobu. Mike Kelly. Konrad Raab. Craig Anderson. I know ‘em all. I know what they can do, and when folk look at this list they won’t figger me into the equation… but I got this here belt for a reason, and I have… other reasons I need to make a run in this thing…”
That’s where he paused. That’s where the sun fell on the knoll. That’s where he and his mam would continue to argue because he was running with The Conglomerate.
“They aren’t good people, Arlo. You’re gettin’ caught up in this and you don’t know who you are… what profits a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul?” She ignored how hard Arlo rolled his eyes and let his spoon clang into the ceramic bowl.
“There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing.” Arlo decided nearly perfectly as he had stood up. “I’m a champ, mam. I’m a champ and that’s the way it’s gonna stay, and that’s the way it’s gonna’ be!”
This had led him to the knoll, and this had led him to how he finished up his promo as he stood in front of that camera with the ACM backdrop behind him, he tossed his hair wildly out of his face.
“No matter how much it triggers these people, I’m doin’ this under the name of The Conglomerate. I’m doing it in the name of ACM, and I’m doing it for ARLO. ROSABEL. I know the names who made a damn name for themselves here in Japan. I know who has wrestled under the NJFC banner, and I promise at the end of the day, you all are going to know that I belong here too!”
Finally, the promo was over. So was his visit and his plastic spoon scraped the bottom of the cup of jello. He crushed it in his hand and then pushed himself up until the light faded. The light was gone, but Arlo felt it burning inside of him. He wanted the Azteca Championship so he took it. He wanted the Fighting Spirit Tournament… so he was going to take it.
"For what profits a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul.”
Everything.
