Post by MorningStar on Feb 22, 2007 17:01:28 GMT -5
…One Match…
:: Lil’ John ::
These two are ready to tear each other apart, Ozzy!
:: Ozzy ::
I hope they fucking do, I want blood!!!
…One Title...
:: Lil’ John ::
Mental’s got him hooked… Cerebral Shock!!!
:: Ozzy ::
No, ya fucker! GET UP!!!
:: Lil’ John ::
One… Two… CONVICT KICKED OUT!!!
…One Moment…
:: Lil’ John ::
Fisherman suplex by The MorningStar! He’s got those fingers locked tight! One… Two… THREE!!!
:: Ozzy ::
No ya bastard, NO!!!
:: Lil’ John ::
Johnny Mental has just become XVI world heavyweight champion!!!
…One title…
The XVI has just seen its first Pay Per View event go down a storm. Surprises were rife, upsets were bountiful… and champions were crowned. Outside, the crowd are baying for more action; they've just seen some of the most brutal matches to EVER grace the world of professional wrestling, and Side Effect the next week is going to have to really shiny to live up to it. Backstage it's quiet, that hushed feeling of expectancy, whilst every man mentally prepares for the recovery after such a profound bruising, some with medical orderlies, some preferring home methods.
The dressing room of “The MorningStar” Johnny Mental is cold and bleak; beige walls, grey lockers and deep hardwood benches...the only touch of color is Mental’s kit-bag, his malboro red Budweiser towel, and an Honour Among None poster taped askew across the lockers. even through the thick brickwork walls, the baying of the crowd is still audible, though muted to nothing but a dull roar. The door swings open fast, smacking against the wall with a loud crack, and two back-up referees rush through, one with Mental’s arm draped across his shoulder, taking the weight of The MorningStar, whilst the other holds onto his left arm to steady him. Even through the grimace of pain, Mental is grinning through the crimson mask, his left hand clutched tightly to the XVI World Heavyweight title. Gently they guide him to one of the wide hardwood benches and assist him in sitting down.
:: Referee ::
Johnny, are you ok? Just wait here, the doc will be here in a sec!
With that, both refs leave the room, leaving Mental hunched almost double, cradling his new championship belt in the crook of his arms. A single drop of blood drips onto the pristine gold, and almost tenderly Mental wipes it off with his thumb.
<|?|> Voice <|?|>
Lookin’ pretty Johnny boy, very damned pretty!
Through the haze in his brain, Mental looks up, blinking blood out of his eyes. Stood at the doorway, arms folded and shoulder leaning against the door jamb, stands Steve “The Phoenix” Frost… Mental’s oldest friend, longest partner and, most recently, beatdown victim. Mental struggles to his feet, grinning shyly at Frost. Frost just shakes his head and unfolds his arms, catching Johnny in a bearhug.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
I KNEW it! I KNEW you’d fucking do it, mate!
Mental laughs in relief, returning his partners embrace – more for support as through affection.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
And I did it without him, dude! I did it on my gods damned own!!! No fucking magic, no fucking demons, I beat him one on one!!!
The congratulations and jubilations continue on for a few minutes more, until the doctor – a rather dour man answering to the name Dr. Rosenburg, complete with spectacles and a friar tuck haircut. With a pinpoint flashlight he checks Mental’s eyes for dilation, attends to the lacerations on head and arms, and finally tapes up Mental’s ribs to prevent further bruising. Satisfied with his work, he exits to find his next patient… it’s going to be a long, long night for Dr. Rosenburg. Alone again, Frost sprawls on the second bench and lights up a Benson silver, throwing the pack to Mental, who quickly replicates the feat.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
So, champ, how does it feel?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Dude… it’s phenomenal. Christ, since the WCXF Universal this is the only title I’VE won, y’know? I didn’t need parlour tricks, evil shit, sacrifices… I went out there and I showed the bastard exactly what the fuck I could do… it feels good man. Sore, but good.
With a shy smile, Mental takes a drag of hit cigarette, wincing as he inhales, this inflated lungs pushing against the bruised ribs. Frost just chuckles.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Ah, quit looking for sympathy; you young ‘uns today heal quickly. But seriously, it’s about time, mate. You’ve learned to stand on your own two feet… and it’s about bloody time! Just don’t let your guard down though, you’ve got your first defence coming up at Side Effect…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Already? Christ! I was so busy preppin’ for my match, I didn’t think much about that. Ah well, if Genocide want to try to take this from me, let him come fuc…
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
No no, mate, you got the wrong end of the stick. You’re fighting Calaz again.
Mental starts, eyes wide in shock and disbelief… until the pain from his ribs kicks in again, and he hunches back over, still clutching his belt.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You’re shitting me, right? You’re telling me that after all that, Genocide got pinned by CALAZ?! Pull the other one mate, it plays jingle bells… the hell happened?!
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Honest as anything, mate. Genocide cocked up and ran into the turnbuckle, and Calaz caught him with that damned Vertebreaker. Still, at least it gives you a bit of a breather, eh?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Nah dude, I ain’t underestimating him. I kicked seven shades out of him last time; he threw everything at me that he had… Christ, everything but the kitchen sink, and he still couldn’t get the job done. But it looks like the kids got the luck of the Irish… so I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt, this time. I tell you though, dude… He ain’t taking this off me, not after what I’ve gone through. NO ONE is taking this off me.
Frost takes another drag from his cigarette, a thoughtful look across his face. Exhaling slowly, he blows a fat ring of blue-grey smoke and stares through it at the ceiling.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Just watch out for that Vertebreaker dude… It’s a nasty, nasty piece of work. He manages to slip that on you, and even the mighty MorningStar could be looking at a loss.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Hah! Dude, take a look at that move; yeah it’s an evil move, but it’s a bitch to pull off. The Cerebral Shock though… same point of the neck, higher elevation… and a damned sight easier to pull off. If needs be I’ll snap his scrawny little neck with it! This is my glory now, my title… only way it’s leaving my waist is by being prised from my still, lifeless corpse…
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
That’s me boy. Now, strap that cold on, grab your coat… it’s time for a victory celebration, mate. Give it ‘ere…
No man on earth would be allowed to touch that belt, save Steven Frost. Without hesitation, Mental hands the belt over and turns around, arms outspread. Quickly, Frost wraps the belt around Mental’s waist, fastening it in place. Mental drops his arms and turns around, for the first time wearing the gold like a true champion, with a cocky smile and defiant shoulder set to match. Frost just grins at him.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Well, looking like that, at least ONE of us is getting some action tonight. To the beer!
Taking Mental’s trenchcoat from its hook behind the door, he throws it at the champ and opens the door with a mocking bow. Mental just laughs and shakes his head at his friends japes, and together they hit the town, celebrating as only the Children Of The Night can…
:: Lil’ John ::
These two are ready to tear each other apart, Ozzy!
:: Ozzy ::
I hope they fucking do, I want blood!!!
…One Title...
:: Lil’ John ::
Mental’s got him hooked… Cerebral Shock!!!
:: Ozzy ::
No, ya fucker! GET UP!!!
:: Lil’ John ::
One… Two… CONVICT KICKED OUT!!!
…One Moment…
:: Lil’ John ::
Fisherman suplex by The MorningStar! He’s got those fingers locked tight! One… Two… THREE!!!
:: Ozzy ::
No ya bastard, NO!!!
:: Lil’ John ::
Johnny Mental has just become XVI world heavyweight champion!!!
…One title…
The XVI has just seen its first Pay Per View event go down a storm. Surprises were rife, upsets were bountiful… and champions were crowned. Outside, the crowd are baying for more action; they've just seen some of the most brutal matches to EVER grace the world of professional wrestling, and Side Effect the next week is going to have to really shiny to live up to it. Backstage it's quiet, that hushed feeling of expectancy, whilst every man mentally prepares for the recovery after such a profound bruising, some with medical orderlies, some preferring home methods.
The dressing room of “The MorningStar” Johnny Mental is cold and bleak; beige walls, grey lockers and deep hardwood benches...the only touch of color is Mental’s kit-bag, his malboro red Budweiser towel, and an Honour Among None poster taped askew across the lockers. even through the thick brickwork walls, the baying of the crowd is still audible, though muted to nothing but a dull roar. The door swings open fast, smacking against the wall with a loud crack, and two back-up referees rush through, one with Mental’s arm draped across his shoulder, taking the weight of The MorningStar, whilst the other holds onto his left arm to steady him. Even through the grimace of pain, Mental is grinning through the crimson mask, his left hand clutched tightly to the XVI World Heavyweight title. Gently they guide him to one of the wide hardwood benches and assist him in sitting down.
:: Referee ::
Johnny, are you ok? Just wait here, the doc will be here in a sec!
With that, both refs leave the room, leaving Mental hunched almost double, cradling his new championship belt in the crook of his arms. A single drop of blood drips onto the pristine gold, and almost tenderly Mental wipes it off with his thumb.
<|?|> Voice <|?|>
Lookin’ pretty Johnny boy, very damned pretty!
Through the haze in his brain, Mental looks up, blinking blood out of his eyes. Stood at the doorway, arms folded and shoulder leaning against the door jamb, stands Steve “The Phoenix” Frost… Mental’s oldest friend, longest partner and, most recently, beatdown victim. Mental struggles to his feet, grinning shyly at Frost. Frost just shakes his head and unfolds his arms, catching Johnny in a bearhug.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
I KNEW it! I KNEW you’d fucking do it, mate!
Mental laughs in relief, returning his partners embrace – more for support as through affection.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
And I did it without him, dude! I did it on my gods damned own!!! No fucking magic, no fucking demons, I beat him one on one!!!
The congratulations and jubilations continue on for a few minutes more, until the doctor – a rather dour man answering to the name Dr. Rosenburg, complete with spectacles and a friar tuck haircut. With a pinpoint flashlight he checks Mental’s eyes for dilation, attends to the lacerations on head and arms, and finally tapes up Mental’s ribs to prevent further bruising. Satisfied with his work, he exits to find his next patient… it’s going to be a long, long night for Dr. Rosenburg. Alone again, Frost sprawls on the second bench and lights up a Benson silver, throwing the pack to Mental, who quickly replicates the feat.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
So, champ, how does it feel?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Dude… it’s phenomenal. Christ, since the WCXF Universal this is the only title I’VE won, y’know? I didn’t need parlour tricks, evil shit, sacrifices… I went out there and I showed the bastard exactly what the fuck I could do… it feels good man. Sore, but good.
With a shy smile, Mental takes a drag of hit cigarette, wincing as he inhales, this inflated lungs pushing against the bruised ribs. Frost just chuckles.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Ah, quit looking for sympathy; you young ‘uns today heal quickly. But seriously, it’s about time, mate. You’ve learned to stand on your own two feet… and it’s about bloody time! Just don’t let your guard down though, you’ve got your first defence coming up at Side Effect…
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Already? Christ! I was so busy preppin’ for my match, I didn’t think much about that. Ah well, if Genocide want to try to take this from me, let him come fuc…
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
No no, mate, you got the wrong end of the stick. You’re fighting Calaz again.
Mental starts, eyes wide in shock and disbelief… until the pain from his ribs kicks in again, and he hunches back over, still clutching his belt.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
You’re shitting me, right? You’re telling me that after all that, Genocide got pinned by CALAZ?! Pull the other one mate, it plays jingle bells… the hell happened?!
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Honest as anything, mate. Genocide cocked up and ran into the turnbuckle, and Calaz caught him with that damned Vertebreaker. Still, at least it gives you a bit of a breather, eh?
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Nah dude, I ain’t underestimating him. I kicked seven shades out of him last time; he threw everything at me that he had… Christ, everything but the kitchen sink, and he still couldn’t get the job done. But it looks like the kids got the luck of the Irish… so I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt, this time. I tell you though, dude… He ain’t taking this off me, not after what I’ve gone through. NO ONE is taking this off me.
Frost takes another drag from his cigarette, a thoughtful look across his face. Exhaling slowly, he blows a fat ring of blue-grey smoke and stares through it at the ceiling.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Just watch out for that Vertebreaker dude… It’s a nasty, nasty piece of work. He manages to slip that on you, and even the mighty MorningStar could be looking at a loss.
<|?|> The MorningStar <|?|>
Hah! Dude, take a look at that move; yeah it’s an evil move, but it’s a bitch to pull off. The Cerebral Shock though… same point of the neck, higher elevation… and a damned sight easier to pull off. If needs be I’ll snap his scrawny little neck with it! This is my glory now, my title… only way it’s leaving my waist is by being prised from my still, lifeless corpse…
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
That’s me boy. Now, strap that cold on, grab your coat… it’s time for a victory celebration, mate. Give it ‘ere…
No man on earth would be allowed to touch that belt, save Steven Frost. Without hesitation, Mental hands the belt over and turns around, arms outspread. Quickly, Frost wraps the belt around Mental’s waist, fastening it in place. Mental drops his arms and turns around, for the first time wearing the gold like a true champion, with a cocky smile and defiant shoulder set to match. Frost just grins at him.
<|?|> The Phoenix <|?|>
Well, looking like that, at least ONE of us is getting some action tonight. To the beer!
Taking Mental’s trenchcoat from its hook behind the door, he throws it at the champ and opens the door with a mocking bow. Mental just laughs and shakes his head at his friends japes, and together they hit the town, celebrating as only the Children Of The Night can…