Post by Deleted on Nov 11, 2015 19:06:38 GMT
I was still seeing stars from that piledriver when they wheeled Smalltooth Jones out of the joint and told me if I wanted to play dead any longer, the venue would start charging me rent.
It wasn’t the ideal win I thought we’d walk away with our heads held high defiantly against an audience that had borne witness to whatever atrocity or hijinks a team of rudos would come up with to seal the proverbial deal.
But it wasn’t quite the disastrous loss that it could’ve been either, thanks to the quick hands of Brutus Smith. The Canadian Embassy certainly did go on to get their money’s worth before the timely intervention of the AIP; while I was, of course, still navigating the great beyond with my back firmly planted on the canvass.
El Vainillo, everybody’s favorite masked tecnico, also got his money’s worth at the expense of my ass. That piledriver came the fuck out of nowhere; it was quick and the Vanilla bastard put everything he had into making sure it hurt like hell. It was completely understandable in hindsight, given our little experiment with alien Mind Control technology during our last encounter.
I’ll be seeing you again, Hecho de Vainilla, and I’ll find a way to even up the score between us.
But speaking of alien technology, it seemed that management had deemed it fit to grant Pollomania’s resident “Intergalactic Conquerer” a shot at my Scramble Championship.
I’d imagine that he wouldn’t have taken too kindly to having his own weapon being used against him, especially by a member of the primitive human race that shouldn’t be able to comprehend the science behind advanced alien weaponry; let alone wield it effectively.
He’ll definitely be walking down that ramp next week with more than a chip on his shoulder.
Then again, I wasn’t the one who Atomic Dropped the shit out of his green-skinned ass onto the butt of his own raygun. Now that was a fucking good call by El Vainillo, for once.
But I guess the real significance of the match didn’t quite dawn on me until I got the heads-up from one of the many minimum-wage production staffers after I staggered back through the curtain when the Houston gig was just about wrapped up.
“You’re booked for New Orleans…”
I barely caught all the bullet-point details on my title defense match, but I practically stopped in my tracks when I heard the location for the next venue.
After nearly a decade of being on the fucking road, busting heads and getting my own head busted for dollars, pesos and yen; I was finally going home.
I could’ve thought of any number of things at that very moment, but all I could think of was a song; and I sung it out loud all the way to the lockers…
It wasn’t the ideal win I thought we’d walk away with our heads held high defiantly against an audience that had borne witness to whatever atrocity or hijinks a team of rudos would come up with to seal the proverbial deal.
But it wasn’t quite the disastrous loss that it could’ve been either, thanks to the quick hands of Brutus Smith. The Canadian Embassy certainly did go on to get their money’s worth before the timely intervention of the AIP; while I was, of course, still navigating the great beyond with my back firmly planted on the canvass.
El Vainillo, everybody’s favorite masked tecnico, also got his money’s worth at the expense of my ass. That piledriver came the fuck out of nowhere; it was quick and the Vanilla bastard put everything he had into making sure it hurt like hell. It was completely understandable in hindsight, given our little experiment with alien Mind Control technology during our last encounter.
I’ll be seeing you again, Hecho de Vainilla, and I’ll find a way to even up the score between us.
But speaking of alien technology, it seemed that management had deemed it fit to grant Pollomania’s resident “Intergalactic Conquerer” a shot at my Scramble Championship.
I’d imagine that he wouldn’t have taken too kindly to having his own weapon being used against him, especially by a member of the primitive human race that shouldn’t be able to comprehend the science behind advanced alien weaponry; let alone wield it effectively.
He’ll definitely be walking down that ramp next week with more than a chip on his shoulder.
Then again, I wasn’t the one who Atomic Dropped the shit out of his green-skinned ass onto the butt of his own raygun. Now that was a fucking good call by El Vainillo, for once.
But I guess the real significance of the match didn’t quite dawn on me until I got the heads-up from one of the many minimum-wage production staffers after I staggered back through the curtain when the Houston gig was just about wrapped up.
“You’re booked for New Orleans…”
I barely caught all the bullet-point details on my title defense match, but I practically stopped in my tracks when I heard the location for the next venue.
After nearly a decade of being on the fucking road, busting heads and getting my own head busted for dollars, pesos and yen; I was finally going home.
I could’ve thought of any number of things at that very moment, but all I could think of was a song; and I sung it out loud all the way to the lockers…
“Goin' back home, fe nan e'
To the land of the beautiful queen
Goin back to home to my baby
Goin' back to New Orleans…”
To the land of the beautiful queen
Goin back to home to my baby
Goin' back to New Orleans…”