|
Post by Victor Kall on Mar 28, 2024 20:59:03 GMT -6
Victor Kall in Air-Conditioned Nightmare Victor Kall had never been on an airplane. He didn’t have any designs to try. It wasn’t the fear of flying or heights so much as it was the claustrophobia. The idea of being stuck in a metal tube with over a hundred people for hours, approximately five from Los Angeles to New York. Who knew out of those hundred people how many were having deviant thoughts or homicidal tendencies? Did Victor ever have those thoughts?
Sure.
But he knew how to contain them. He knew what would happen if they were unleashed. Life, as he knew it, would be over. While he thought himself intelligent, he knew that he would be caught. He wasn’t a thirty-five-year-old, five foot ten, one-hundred-and-eighty-pound white man with short, brown hair. He stood out in the crowd. Even when he would wear what he would have considered a disguise – something like a suit, for example – perceptive people sensed there was something off. They knew that he wasn’t one of them. No matter how slick of a criminal mastermind he thought that he could have been, there’d always be someone who saw the suspicious, twitchy freak who didn’t belong.
Still, Victor was able to have his fun. The trip to New York would take him several days cross country. He didn’t have a plan on how to get there, or a road map or GPS. He didn’t even have a driver’s license. What he did have was money; hard earned dole from his work within ECWF. And despite the new world sentiment of stranger danger and no longer feeling safe to trust your fellow man, there were still plenty of people willing to take that chance for some green. No matter how he looked.
It was a few days after his match with Sam Steele, the first horror-core rules match that Victor had been exposed to. He was promised violence and that was delivered. Sam might have been the toughest opponent he’d faced thus far, but he passed that test, like every other test that ECWF had thrown at him thus far. There was a fleeting disappointment that Victor had not bled in that match, but at least he got a black eye. Despite how he looked, a friendly truck driver named Wayne had offered to give him a lift in his trailer as far as Denver. It was dark, it was uncomfortable, and oddly smelled liked the truck driver himself; a mixture of beef jerky and sweat. Still, it was a ride. Victor was making progress.
Once in Denver, Victor got the lowdown on the street that a club named Millennium might be a good place for him to get a drink. It was a club that catered to goths, a community that he was often associated with despite not caring for labels. In retrospect, not caring about labels probably made him the perfect example of a goth, but he didn’t really like The Cure, so he thought he’d fail any test they gave him. The club itself was typical with monolithic black walls, a mixture of purple and mauve tinted strobe lights, a bunch of people dressed in black, which Victor couldn’t really criticize. There were people dancing in the way that a corpse would if a harsh wind swayed it. The music itself was not bad, some of it was poppy enough that dancing was justified. Victor found himself at a bar, drinking a rum and coke, requesting an extra cherry. He mused that it was a darker colored cherry, because even the fucking straws in this place were black.
It wasn’t too long that a woman with a mixture of black and lime green dyed hair approached him. She wasn’t the first person to approach him in the club, but she was the first to actually recognize him. She introduced herself as Rain, because of course that was her name, and she went on to espouse Victor’s virtues as a wrestler and that she felt connected to him; she understood Victor. The only thing to do with something like that was to play along until boredom set in. What she said next took Victor off-guard, to the point where he agreed without giving it a second thought. Her boyfriend had an internet show where he interviewed a variety of other freaks, musicians, sculptors, beat poets (they still exist), ghouls and self-appointed philosophers. They never had a wrestler on though, not one who really understood the struggles of being a pale, middle-class white person in a cruel, harsh world; not like Victor did. These were the kids Victor both often defended and beat the shit out of when he was a teenager, depending on his mood.
Thus, Victor found himself sitting on a stiff gray couch with questionable stains, his eyes focused on Rain’s boyfriend, a guy who called himself Draven whom he instantly hated. Draven, how original. He was currently moaning to someone else that was busy behind a laptop, apparently setting up the shot. Draven sat in a beaten up, matching gray armchair, while the girl Rain sat next to Victor on the couch. Shouldn’t she have sat next to her boyfriend, and Victor in the armchair? Yes, but it was clear that Draven was guilty of a healthy dose of self-importance. The host turned to Victor and told him that they were starting in a few seconds. He didn’t move, but he internally composed himself. Showtime…
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ We open on a close-up, above waist profile of a young man sitting on a dilapidated gray recliner. The man is dressed in all black, wearing the classic Misfits skull t-shirt, with a long sleeve white shirt underneath. His shoulder-length hair is way too black to be natural, and the expression too sullen not to be forced. Goth guy: “Dark midnight everyone. I am Draven and welcome to another episode of Draven’s Nest. Thank you all for joining me, and if you haven’t already, be sure to like and subscribe so you don’t miss out on any content. With me is my occasional co-host, and most importantly, my soul mate and light in the darkness, Rain.”
The camera pans out as he speaks, showing the green and black-haired Rain sitting on a couch next to the recliner. The right corner of her mouth twists up in what could be interpreted as a smile, but she’s otherwise silent. Next to her is a man that ECWF fans have become familiar with, although his head is bowed, and upper body hunched over presently. His shoulders shake just the slightest bit. Draven: “Also with us tonight is a special guest. Wrestling fans may know him currently from ECWF, and if you’re not familiar with him, you should get familiar. He’s a kindred spirit, someone who has faced despair in and out of the ring and rose to the occasion each time. This, is Victor Kall.”
Victor leans back, raising his head and giving a solemn nod to Draven. Victor’s lips tighten, a slight grunt escaping as he tries not to laugh. Draven: “Welcome to the nest, Victor.”
Victor: “Thank you, Draven. It’s an honor to rest in thy nest.”
Draven: “The honor is ours. Victor, if you wouldn’t mind starting us off tonight and just tell some of the unenlightened a little bit about yourself.”
Victor nods again, sinking back into the couch and folding his arms across his chest. Victor: “I’ll be happy to. I’m Victor Kall, that’s Victor with a C in the middle of it, some people like to say that because I mentioned how my name was spelled incorrectly for months on the programs of a large wrestling company. God forbid accuracy, I guess. I’m twenty-seven, I think, maybe I’m twenty-eight, I don’t really know. My parents liked me a little bit, they just couldn’t help themselves, let alone a kid like me. I grew up mostly in Vermont, kicked around the New England area, did a little bit of this, little bit of that. Drank, popped pills, kicked ass, got my ass kicked, stole forty-eight cans of lima beans once…typical young man about town type of things.”
Draven: “Lima beans?”
Victor: “I was under the impression I was amongst people that I wouldn’t need to explain my proclivities to.”
Draven holds his hands up, inching backwards in his seat. Draven: “No, I apologize, I’m not here to judge you. Nobody here will judge a fellow wandering soul.”
Victor nods his head. Victor: “Wandering soul. You know, I like that. It’s a pretty apt description. I wandered into that club tonight, not knowing anyone, stranger in a strange land and found my way here, to you, and Rain, and your nest.”
Draven: “And we thank you for joining us. Victor, I haven’t been keeping up with wrestling too much lately. It seems like they just want to present these photogenic, prototypical, muscular, clean-cut men and women with unrealistic bodies. But after hearing about you from Rain, I have to say that I was intrigued. I did watch a little bit of WarTime Rumble match before our interview. I’ll admit that I thought you’d be a big guy with a million dollar body too, but seeing you, someone who wasn’t cut from that cloth, a guy who’s clearly been clawing his way through the abyss that is life…well, I found inspiration in watching you take out everyone else. I mean, you were fighting against five guys at one point and they still couldn’t keep you down.”
Victor: “Was it five? I thought it was six. I guess it doesn’t matter. You’d be referring to the Age of the Fall. I think there’s like thirty members now. Yeah, they like to think that they’re in control. In control of that match, in control of Friday Night Revolution, in control of ECWF. Their leader, some Svengali named Mr. Anderson, who helps his landlady with her garbage no doubt, also likes to play mind games. The truth of the matter is Draven, that their control is an illusion.”
Draven: “I hate those that try to control others, becoming the establishment. Like we need other people to tell us how to live our lives, people that don’t even know what real heartache is darkness is.”
Victor: “…yeah, sure. But you’re right, they are pretty much one of the establishments in ECWF. You have Age of the Fall, you have the Corporate Family, and between them, they’ve got most of the titles. But when I won the Rumble, I proved that their control was a fallacy. It doesn’t matter how many card-carrying members either side has, it doesn’t matter how big they are, and it didn’t matter how many times they knocked me down. They couldn’t take me out. Nobody’s been able to. And the reality of the situation, is that I’m on my way to New York to compete in the promotion’s biggest event, StarrCade. And the NextGen champ, the World Heavyweight champ…on the biggest show in the biggest stage and the world’s most famous arena…they’re not in the main event. I am. In fact, the only reason why one of the Age of the Fall members is in the main event is because I put them there. They didn’t even earn it. For all their power, I controlled the destiny of one of their members. Jay Reynolds, who’s probably best known as being a lackey for Mr. Anderson, gets to be headlining the marquee because I allowed it.”
Draven: “So, you’re wrestling Jay Reynolds, who I understand has the Horror-Core title. What’s that mean exactly?”
Victor rolls up his sleeves, showing the faint outlines of the words ‘horror’ and ‘core’ that he scarred into his forearms several weeks back. Victor: “This is what it means. It means no rules, Mr. Draven. It means freedom for me, and freedom for me is a nightmare for others. It means that I will be unchecked to do whatever I want, to use whatever I want. I get to bash, I get to cut, I get to lick, I get to maim…I get to make our business’ biggest spectacle of the year into a bloodbath. I get my way. Do I think that the Age of the Fall will interfere? Yes, they’re not going to let Jay Reynolds face me on his own. Don’t get me wrong, they ultimately don’t care what happens to him, but the main event at StarrCade, well if they don’t interfere then I'm probably going to make a fool out of poor Jay. He won his title over a broken-down legend named Scotty Paine, and when I say that his talent is legendary, I mean to use it in the sense of the word ‘myth’. Like, people have heard about it for years, but who’s actually seen it? The same Scotty Paine, mind you, is wrestling the previously mentioned Mr. Anderson, so realistically, you could say that Anderson’s only talented enough to get his protégé’s table scraps. Hmmm, talk about the student surpassing the master. Regardless, the Fall likes to show their faces to end shows. I’ll be waiting for them. I might have a few surprises of my own. For I came into this world with my legs forward, had I not reason to make haste and seek the ruin of those who would usurp me? And the nurses cried, oh Jesus, he was born with teeth! And so I was, which plainly signified that I should snarl, and bite and play the dog, and on Sunday night, this dog will hunt!”
Draven: “I guess this is what’s called a wrestling promo then?”
Victor: “Isn’t that what you wanted? This is what’s going to get more views for you to circulate your dreariness and spread your ‘abandon all souls’ vibe. If you wanted me to talk about myself, you found the wrong guy. None of my eight therapists in the past could get straight answers from me, you’ve about as much of a shot as Rain over here does getting me to twix her nethers her behind the IHOP a few blocks down.”
Draven: “Whoa, hold on a second, that is not cool.
In the shot, Draven makes like he’s going to stand up, but thinks twice. Rain does her best to look aghast, but is there a curious twinkle in her eye? Kall just ignores her reaction. He raises his hands up, shaking his head. Victor: “You’re right, that was uncalled for. I apologize for that outburst. Sometimes I get going and you just never know what’s going to fly out of my mouth. What else would you like to talk about in the comfort of this air-conditioned nightmare in which you live? Robert Smith, Skinny Puppy perhaps? People look at me and they think, there’s a complicated guy. There’s a tortured soul, why is he so tortured? Why does he wear black? But it’s really simple. I wear black because it’s easy to maintain, because it allows me the anonymity that I crave. People don’t really confront others who wear all black, it’s a silly stigma, but I take advantage of it. What really gets me going? Pain. Receiving, inflicting, it’s the same. I’m not a sadist, I’m not a masochist, I just like to hurt others, and I love daring them to hurt me.”
Victor looks into the camera, his hand raising, index finger extending and curling. The camera obeys, zooming in on his face. Victor: “Jay, I’m asking you, please try to hurt me. If you can’t, then bring your friends, like I know you will anyway. I’d expect nothing less from a coward.”
Victor gives a smile as the camera pulls back and scans the room once again. The host sits uncomfortably, his girlfriend scooting an inch or two closer to Victor, still unnoticed. The scene is silent for a few beats before abruptly cutting.
|
|
|
Post by Victor Kall on Mar 30, 2024 20:16:51 GMT -6
Victor Kall in Gomorrah and the Fair-Haired Madonna If someone were driving straight from Denver to New York, it would take approximately twenty-seven hours. It had taken Victor just over three days due to a few stops along the way. He caught rides with people that were only willing to take him so far, thus he had extended stays in Nebraska, Iowa, Indiana, and Pennsylvania before reaching New York City late Saturday afternoon. Victor took some pride in the fact that the only place he got into any kind of trouble was Iowa, when of course, some good old boy and his blue-collar, ‘anti-everyone that didn’t look like them’ friends decided that he just didn’t look like he belonged. After it was all said and done, one of them wound up with a steak knife sticking out of their left shoulder and Victor was driven to the county line. As he was forcibly removed from the police vehicle, the officer warned him, ‘if I ever see you back in Coralville, you’ll be leaving in an ambulance!’ Victor would try to contain his sorrow and somehow survive the rest of his days without being allowed back in Coralville, Iowa. He also somehow wound up in an Amish town in Pennsylvania, although it wasn’t Lancaster. Oddly enough, aside from looks he received from some of the elders, the people around his age or younger treated him with kindness. They even gave him some free, homemade sarsaparilla, which he didn’t know he needed in his life until that moment. Thus, he treated them with kindness, even if there was a part of him that wanted to refer to the Amish children as ‘Amlettes’. With the rest of the country behind him and not trying to think about the trek back to Los Angeles he’d have to make after this weekend, Victor was dropped off a few blocks inside the Lincoln Tunnel, probably a good ten blocks away from Madison Square Garden, where he would main event the following night. Naturally, Victor couldn’t sleep at the Garden itself, so his first objective was to find some no-tell, motel in the city where he could pay cash and not be disturbed. Being from the New England area, Victor had been to the city many times, and had no designs on playing the role of tourist. He liked the city. He could walk around with the anonymity that he craved and yearned for outside of a wrestling ring. Nobody here gave him a second glance; they were used to the weirdos, the winos, the junkies and the assorted freakshows that went about their business, crossing the street without bothering to check for a green ‘walk’ sign or if a taxi was driving fifty down a street with a speed limit of twenty-five. Victor found his little place in Hell’s Kitchen, on the west side of mid-town Manhattan. It was called Haggerty Arms, a skinny, four-story brick building that was wedged between a Mediterranean grocery and an adult sex store called Norah’s Novelties. Yeah, this was Victor’s type of place. Most of the people here wouldn’t even want to make eye contact with him, lest someone figure out that they should be home with their families rather than getting their rocks off. The inside of the Haggerty was cleaner than it probably should’ve been, although a sitting area with two cheap, torn up couches and the check-in desk encased in bulletproof glass painted a real picture of the place. Victor got a room, stowed his duffel, and set out to hit the town. He didn’t get too far, as something in the window of Norah’s caught his eye and transfixed him. Much like a lot of adult stores, the windows to the place were all but completely covered in advertisements and promotional posters for places where men and women of similar tastes can get more of what they desire. Most of them were clean, so as to not scare the straights and tourist families walking by. The poster in question depicted a woman that was just a shade paler than Victor was, with straight blonde hair almost platinum in color that hung down past her shoulders behind and in front. The way the picture was framed had her hair covering where her breasts would be, but of course, those weren’t visible. Not here; you would have to go to Sapphire’s to see that, which was the name written in purple and gold above the woman’s head. It wasn’t her body though, but the eyes. Victor knew those eyes, and despite pushing her memory to the innermost recesses of his mind, he could never completely forget her. Alyssa. Her name on the poster said Destiny, but he knew her real name to be Alyssa from North Stratford. He noted the address of the club as being only five or six blocks away from Central Park and headed that way where he would wait until nightfall. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To pass the time, Victor ate his dinner from the halal guy stationed just outside the Park by the south exit. The rest of his time was spent wandering the Park, occasionally sitting down and people watching. Central Park still wasn’t the best place to be at night, but if you stuck to the main paths, you were generally fine. He thought about how this place had been in years past, the stories he had heard from people who lived in Manhattan in the 70’s and early to middle 80’s. Before Las Vegas, this was the original Sin City. Places like Sapphire’s were a dime a dozen, especially in Times Square, where you could find a peep show on every block, each catered to service a man’s specific predilections. This was the place people went to explore their dark tendencies, to get a little strange, to pick up a lady of the evening or quench your homosexual fantasies at the meat packing district. The city still had its darkness and trouble could still find you if you went looking. Now, as Victor left the Park area at 9:30 at night, he still saw plenty of families with toddlers walking around, necks craned skyward at the buildings, steel monoliths extended fingers to the heavens. It was a surprise more people didn’t smash into each other, but the actual citizens of the city knew how to weave in and out without being absconded. Tonight, Victor felt like one of those residents, because he had a singular focus and destination. The crowd started to thin out as he headed for 52nd street, especially going down 8th avenue. He was moving away from the main roads that navigated to and from Times Square, the tourism hub. Victor walked with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and his senses started to overload as memories began flooding his synapses. The smell of gardenias from her skin cream, the taste of raspberries from her lip gloss as he stole a kiss, and the sting from the slap she laid on his cheek after. She only did it to keep up appearances, as there were others around who would mock her relentlessly if she so much as admitted attraction to Victor. But the twinkle in her cerulean eyes told him the real story and led them to the roof of the Macy’s that night. Was it his cliched first time? No, but it was the first time he felt his heart might burst through his chest. After it was over, they talked, and she bore her soul to him. She told him about her parents’ divorce and how they were fighting over custody and that her mom was probably going to win. That meant they’d be moving to Yonkers, which was just north of New York City. She told him how scared she was, and he held her. Three weeks later, she was off to the Big Apple. One month later, Victor left Canaan and didn’t return for three years. When he was out of his reverie, he found himself in front of Sapphire’s and suddenly he wasn’t the man fighting in the main event of StarrCade, but the freaked-out fifteen-year-old from years past. What was he doing here, he thought to himself? For a girl like her, Victor was probably a phase to get back at her parents for splitting up and treating her like an object to take possession of. Life wasn’t Don’t Stop Believing by Journey, where the boy from the wrong side of the tracks got the perfect princess. His life had been mostly solitude and he accepted that. Some people weren’t meant to be with others, which he had told himself so much that it had become more than a mantra, but fact of life. “I said stop it! Just leave me alone!” Victor heard the desperate calls from the side alley next to the club. He looked down and saw a man about his height with thirty pounds of muscle on him, hands out, pressed against the brick exterior of the club. Between his hands stood a blonde that he had recognized from the poster at Norah’s and from his world over ten years ago. Destiny, Alyssa, whatever she was going by; she needed help. It was far too difficult for Victor to control the rage that had bubbled inside of him, seeing the damsel in distress. She caught his eyes with hers, and that was enough. Before Victor even knew what he was doing, his hand found a discarded liquor bottle, his feet carried him so quickly he didn’t remember touching the ground. He was on the man in an instant and saw glass shatter in slow motion as he broke the bottle over the man’s head. The man let out a shocked cry and went down, still conscious, covering his head from the unseen assailant. Victor was on him like a hyena, smashing more pieces off the already broken bottle until there were cuts all over the man’s torso and Victor’s own hands. Alyssa/Destiny screamed the entire time, and so lost in the moment was Victor that he didn’t realize she wasn’t screaming her thanks to him; she was pleading for him to stop. He finally snapped out of it when he heard the word ‘husband’. He dropped the neck of the bottle, the only piece left intact and whirled around towards the girl who could’ve been described as his lost love. Now, he was only a few feet away from her, the closest he had been since that night. He was waiting for the smell of gardenias to hit him, but it didn’t. Just booze, garbage and cheap perfume. Her eyes were wide with fear, and now Victor’s grew wide as well. This wasn’t Alyssa; it had never been. The eyes were the same color, but the nose was too small, and the hair had roots too dark. He had been fooled by an imitation. Replaying the scene in her head, down in the alley, now he saw the girl had been smiling and laughing, saying ‘stop it’ and ‘leave me alone’ in a teasing, playful manner. Victor backed up so quickly that he almost tripped over the fallen man. The impostor bent down to check on her husband, and Victor ran. He ran all the way back to Haggerty Arms, up to his room and locked the door. He picked up his pillow, held it to his face and let out a guttural yell. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Tomorrow night is already here. The main event of StarrCade, an opportunity which I won in only my second match in ECWF. During my time here, I’ve been undefeated. It’s an accomplishment that I never thought I would be able to say. Hell, let’s face it, it’s something that people never thought I should be able to say. Because people expected me to go into my first match with John Blade, and at the very best result, they thought I would lose, but maybe the veteran would show me respect for a spirited outing. They called it a massive upset that night; John had just fought for the title prior to our match. He main evented the last really big show that the company’s had, and that match inadvertently became a passing of the torch.”
“As the winner of the WarTime Rumble, I was guaranteed to main event here, in Madison Square Garden. Afterwards, people were asking me which title was I going for? Did I want to challenge Kevin Hunter for the World Heavyweight Championship, or did I want to challenge whoever was to become the ECWF Champion? I’ve always been a firm believer in build-up, whether it be in movies, books, life, so it just didn’t make sense for me to go after one of what people think of as the main titles. I’ve also spent a lifetime subverting people’s expectations. They think of me as some weirdo that listens to sad, emo music, or that because I am mostly withdrawn within myself that I don’t have the mental acuity to verbalize my thoughts and wants and desires. School wanted to put me in the special education class when I was twelve, because I was quiet and didn’t like to do schoolwork. I decide to take the road less traveled because fuck the norms and expectations. And that road led me to the Horror-Core title.”
“Let’s face it Jay Reynolds, you don’t look like the typical representation of what people would think of the Horror-Core title. They see me and go, yeah that makes sense, but they look at you and think young, good-looking guy who could be the face of a wrestling company, especially a public owned wrestling company. Who would look better, me or you? I’m self-aware enough to know the answer to that question. In that aspect though, there is a modicum of respect I have for you. Jay, you beat Scotty Paine to win that title, a guy, much like me, who based on outward appearance embodies the essence of what people think the title is. My biggest question toward you has always been, is this a title that you are really ready to hold and defend in earnest? Or is this just the title you happened to win? Your victory over Paine did have some influence from your cohorts in the Age of the Fall; it’s really easy to swing a chair or a bat at someone who’s already been rendered unable to defend themselves. Can you hit a moving target? Can you hurt me more than I can hurt you? Will you accept the pain that I’m going to bring like I’ll accept yours? I’ve faced guys like you before Jay, but let’s face it, you’ve never faced anyone like me? I know that you have the confidence that your stable mates have your back, but they can’t be there all the time? What if I decide to take you somewhere else in the arena, to a deep, dark place with just a camera and a referee? Are you ready to survive Sunday night at Madison Square Garden, the place where Ali beat Frazier, where Michael Jordan scored 60, where Wayne Gretzky blazed down the ice? Are you ready for all of that?”
“Most importantly…am I ready for that? What the hell am I doing? Madison Square Garden…they literally call it the World’s Most Famous Arena. I’m just a punk kid from a small Vermont town near the Canadian border. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be on the same sidewalk as Madison Square Garden, let alone in the main event. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? The hourglass that appeared on the screen during the last Revolution. It was fitting because my time is running low. I’ve got just about twenty-four hours to go before I make my debut on the grandest stage, in front of thousands in the building, possibly millions watching at home. No matter what the result, more people are going to want a piece of me. They’re going to want me to sign something for them, they’re going to want my picture, they’re going to want me to say hi to their brother, they’re going to want, and want, and want, and want and I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN FUCKING HANDLE THAT!”
“What do I want, what can I handle? I can handle making the streets of New York City run red with the blood of my adversaries. I can handle being jumped by eight or ten guys, it won’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last time. The difference between me and some other hapless victims that has been targeted by the Fall is what I’m prepared to do. If you want to bring your mates to help you Jay, then I urge you to give them this warning. Tell them that he’s going to gouge someone’s eye out. Tell them that he’s going to bite someone’s nose off. Tell them that he’s going to cut someone with the razorblade he has hidden in the hem of his pants. You tell them that one of them is probably not going to have children after Sunday night. You tell them all of this, because the worst thing that you can do with a rabid dog is back it into a corner. I’m a pretty fair guy when it comes down to it Jay, so consider that my fair warning of what could happen if your buddies get involved. If Dan Anderson doesn’t want me to grab his sister one night at a random Revolution in July, then he’ll make sure to stay clear of our match. Tomorrow night, Victor Kall and Jay Reynolds make history by main eventing StarrCade with the Horror-Core title, and again, you are welcome that I decided to make you relevant enough to even get a whiff of the main event. So come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough. If you come alone, I’ll be kind enough to pay for the transfusions that you’re going to need after our match.”
With a click, the tape recorder went silent.
|
|