Post by Hearst on Jun 17, 2017 1:39:03 GMT
They don't show you this side of Tokyo often.
In the states, other countries get labeled as either dust bowls with hungry people or advanced tourist destinations, and for the most part Japan has fallen into that slot. It's a pretty lady of the night with makeup done in LED lights and weird rumors about the things you can eat and fuck as jewelry. Maybe you like anime? Maybe you're a pervert looking for an outlet? Hell, maybe you're both? It seems nowadays that the land in the east can do no wrong, and you can find your weird kink wherever you go.
Devin Hearst had his way of finding the real in fantastic locations.
The Roppongi district is where fucked up people go to get fucked up. There are plenty of stories from wrestlers, both foreigner and locally grow, of the kinds of debauchery one can get into with a few more drinks and a little less self-regard. This is where Devin felt like he most belonged. He spent most of his childhood sleeping on trash, so as an adult it only made sense to live among it. Taking a seat on a concrete step, a cigarette clenched in his lips, Hearst watched the dust settle and the disheveled aimlessly shuffle left and right to nowhere in particular. He had lost his suit; shed it, if you will. No, this less-than-dapper thing had stepped down from the ivory tower and into the muck, but a hungry dog was just as vicious, no matter the color of its pelt. Like the war hounds across his t-shirt, there was no mistaking that Hearst was exactly that: a dog of war.
"I'm not going to bother learning your names."
With a drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaked out of Hearst's mouth as he spoke. He didn't look at the camera. He barely acknowledged that it was there, but even with the lip of his black beanie tucked over his head, we could still see his eyes. They were just as ravished as ever. Maybe even more so?
"There's no point to playing that game. They wrote the book on it a long time ago; we go out there and give each other our all, we all show that fighting spirit while beating the hell out of one another, and it's all said and done we shake hands and the people cheer and blah, blah .... blah. Fuck that. This tag-match we have isn't anything more than a feeding. Jack and I are going to walk down to the ring and rip you up because a bunch of people paid for it. You're just bones to gnaw on; to keep our teeth sharp. I want to say that the match is about sending a message, but who fucking cares when we beat you? Tillman and I are world class competitors with more wins under our belts than you have matches in-general. You're not supposed to win."
Hearst took of his cigarette again, leaning back with a groan. He grimaced down to the camera, and what glared at the viewing world was no higher power or force of evil. It was a man. A very angry man. It was hard to discern whether or not this was worse.
"Thing is, I gotta send a message. Hayden kicked me in the jaw and took my streak. I ain't too mad about that; shit happens. She's good and so is Williams and I wanna try my hand at them again. Now I gotta earn that spot. the way I see it, I have a few ways of doing that. I go on how I did before and I get a bunch of clean victories, shake some hands and maybe, if I'm good, I'll get a shot in a few months ... or I can send Peterson a medical bill like he wouldn't fuckin' believe. See, I don't have to go the low road, but that's not what I'm about. I just plain want to."
Hearst stood up, flicking the cigarette into the distance.
"So I'll give you guys a purpose. I'll let Jack have his fun, and then I'll toss you on the pile. I bet you'll make a decent foundation."
In the states, other countries get labeled as either dust bowls with hungry people or advanced tourist destinations, and for the most part Japan has fallen into that slot. It's a pretty lady of the night with makeup done in LED lights and weird rumors about the things you can eat and fuck as jewelry. Maybe you like anime? Maybe you're a pervert looking for an outlet? Hell, maybe you're both? It seems nowadays that the land in the east can do no wrong, and you can find your weird kink wherever you go.
Devin Hearst had his way of finding the real in fantastic locations.
The Roppongi district is where fucked up people go to get fucked up. There are plenty of stories from wrestlers, both foreigner and locally grow, of the kinds of debauchery one can get into with a few more drinks and a little less self-regard. This is where Devin felt like he most belonged. He spent most of his childhood sleeping on trash, so as an adult it only made sense to live among it. Taking a seat on a concrete step, a cigarette clenched in his lips, Hearst watched the dust settle and the disheveled aimlessly shuffle left and right to nowhere in particular. He had lost his suit; shed it, if you will. No, this less-than-dapper thing had stepped down from the ivory tower and into the muck, but a hungry dog was just as vicious, no matter the color of its pelt. Like the war hounds across his t-shirt, there was no mistaking that Hearst was exactly that: a dog of war.
"I'm not going to bother learning your names."
With a drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaked out of Hearst's mouth as he spoke. He didn't look at the camera. He barely acknowledged that it was there, but even with the lip of his black beanie tucked over his head, we could still see his eyes. They were just as ravished as ever. Maybe even more so?
"There's no point to playing that game. They wrote the book on it a long time ago; we go out there and give each other our all, we all show that fighting spirit while beating the hell out of one another, and it's all said and done we shake hands and the people cheer and blah, blah .... blah. Fuck that. This tag-match we have isn't anything more than a feeding. Jack and I are going to walk down to the ring and rip you up because a bunch of people paid for it. You're just bones to gnaw on; to keep our teeth sharp. I want to say that the match is about sending a message, but who fucking cares when we beat you? Tillman and I are world class competitors with more wins under our belts than you have matches in-general. You're not supposed to win."
Hearst took of his cigarette again, leaning back with a groan. He grimaced down to the camera, and what glared at the viewing world was no higher power or force of evil. It was a man. A very angry man. It was hard to discern whether or not this was worse.
"Thing is, I gotta send a message. Hayden kicked me in the jaw and took my streak. I ain't too mad about that; shit happens. She's good and so is Williams and I wanna try my hand at them again. Now I gotta earn that spot. the way I see it, I have a few ways of doing that. I go on how I did before and I get a bunch of clean victories, shake some hands and maybe, if I'm good, I'll get a shot in a few months ... or I can send Peterson a medical bill like he wouldn't fuckin' believe. See, I don't have to go the low road, but that's not what I'm about. I just plain want to."
Hearst stood up, flicking the cigarette into the distance.
"So I'll give you guys a purpose. I'll let Jack have his fun, and then I'll toss you on the pile. I bet you'll make a decent foundation."
