Post by Mr. C on Oct 19, 2009 21:49:18 GMT -5
"A match tomorrow? Against who?"
Brett Cross sat with his feet kicked up on the table infront of him as he sat in the gilded halls of - oh, who are we kidding. Maybe in this nut case's mind it was the gilded halls of Asgaard. But in our world, in the real world, it was just some run-down shack of a bar near Bakersfield. A simple, forgetable, dirty, little hole-in-the-wall bar, where the owner survived on the support of not much more than this beast of man's huge appetite for "mead," which was actually nothing more than the cheapest beer money could buy. In Brett's mind, he's "The God of Midgaard," but to the rest of the world, bar owner included, he is some delusional monster, some freak the likes of which would make a hobo look normal - the only catch? Brett is a proffesional freak, a lunatic that gets a paycheck for being nuts. And while it makes for lots of humorous conversation, the sad reality is - unlike the other proffesional nut cases in The Asylum, his character did not last between the bells.
"Well, against the two new guys Jethro Pickins and D'Angelo deVine, and then mentor-turned-wreslter Urahara, in a fatal four-way..."
The interviewer that was speaking to this mammoth schizo was a bit nervous, and it showed quite clearly through his speech and mannerisms - the poor lad was practically shaking beneath his suit. And it wasn't because of Brett Cross' size, it wasn't because of his ruthless nature in the ring, and it wasn't even due to the Hardkore champ's horrible smell (although it didn't help, either). No, the scariest part about this "Viking" was his unpredictability. He truly thought he was a Viking, living his life among the nine realms found in Norse mythology. He does not see the world we do, he does not live in the same astral plane as us, and because of it, no one can ever expect to know what he's thinking, to know what he sees. For all we know, he sees each of us as Jotunn, and he's thinking through how he plans to eviscerate us.
But Cross didn't lash out, he didn't attempt to kill the poor kid. He simply took another long swig of the beer and slammed the mug back down on to the table. He stroked the thick whiskers of his blonde beard and seemed to think long and hard about those names. We say seemed, because again, how the hell would we know what was going on inside of his head. And then after a long while, Cross spoke in his deep Norse accent as he swung his legs off their perch and sat up to look at his interviewer.
"I'll be honest with ye, lad."
Brett stopped and stared right at the young interviewer, looking at him from under a furrowed brow. His eyes burrowed deep in to the kid, past the vest and tie, past the muscle and bone of the sternum and deep in to the kid's heart, clutching it with fear. Honest about what? And why did he call him lad? What did it mean?! The interviewer gulped and nodded his head as if to say, "Okay, be honest. Just don't kill me!" The kid stared back, and the shaking got worse. Sweat formed at his brow, but he didnt dare make a sudden movement to wipe it off, he just looked back in to the eyes of the Viking.
"...I don't know a damn one of 'em, but I'm sure I'll beat 'em like I do everyone else. Now if ye don't mind, I'd like ta get back to me drinkin'."
And with that, Cross kicked his feet back up and brought the mug up to the beard that covered his lips once again and gulped the drink down hard. With a sigh of relief, the kid nodded politely and then quickly signaled for the camera-man to follow him on out of there. Sure, he wasn't even close to being killed, but just being in the same room as this guy gave him the chills. And not because he's big, not because he's scary - it was none of the things you'd think at first sight, and none of the things Brett boasts about. Nay, this kid was scared because he never could tell what this lunatic was thinking, he had no idea what was going on inside his head.
And perhaps that's one of the reasons Brett has been so impressive in The Asylum. Sure, he's strong. Sure, he's big. Sure, he's ruthless and aggressive and takes the punishment and dishes it out worse. But beyond all of that, maybe his greatest weapon was how try as one might, they just couldn't get inside his head. They could never be one step ahead of him because he just isn't like all of us. And he's not even a special kind of us, he isn't even one of us. We may see him as a freak, a monster, a schizophrenic loser. But to be fair, this schizophrenic loser has an impressive and growing record, so he must be doing something right. And that something might just be that he does not play by our rules, because he just isn't one of us. No matter what we'd like to think, in his mind he's a Viking, he's The Norse Hammer, he's The God of Midgaard.
And in the end, what you think about yourself is all that matters.
Brett Cross sat with his feet kicked up on the table infront of him as he sat in the gilded halls of - oh, who are we kidding. Maybe in this nut case's mind it was the gilded halls of Asgaard. But in our world, in the real world, it was just some run-down shack of a bar near Bakersfield. A simple, forgetable, dirty, little hole-in-the-wall bar, where the owner survived on the support of not much more than this beast of man's huge appetite for "mead," which was actually nothing more than the cheapest beer money could buy. In Brett's mind, he's "The God of Midgaard," but to the rest of the world, bar owner included, he is some delusional monster, some freak the likes of which would make a hobo look normal - the only catch? Brett is a proffesional freak, a lunatic that gets a paycheck for being nuts. And while it makes for lots of humorous conversation, the sad reality is - unlike the other proffesional nut cases in The Asylum, his character did not last between the bells.
"Well, against the two new guys Jethro Pickins and D'Angelo deVine, and then mentor-turned-wreslter Urahara, in a fatal four-way..."
The interviewer that was speaking to this mammoth schizo was a bit nervous, and it showed quite clearly through his speech and mannerisms - the poor lad was practically shaking beneath his suit. And it wasn't because of Brett Cross' size, it wasn't because of his ruthless nature in the ring, and it wasn't even due to the Hardkore champ's horrible smell (although it didn't help, either). No, the scariest part about this "Viking" was his unpredictability. He truly thought he was a Viking, living his life among the nine realms found in Norse mythology. He does not see the world we do, he does not live in the same astral plane as us, and because of it, no one can ever expect to know what he's thinking, to know what he sees. For all we know, he sees each of us as Jotunn, and he's thinking through how he plans to eviscerate us.
But Cross didn't lash out, he didn't attempt to kill the poor kid. He simply took another long swig of the beer and slammed the mug back down on to the table. He stroked the thick whiskers of his blonde beard and seemed to think long and hard about those names. We say seemed, because again, how the hell would we know what was going on inside of his head. And then after a long while, Cross spoke in his deep Norse accent as he swung his legs off their perch and sat up to look at his interviewer.
"I'll be honest with ye, lad."
Brett stopped and stared right at the young interviewer, looking at him from under a furrowed brow. His eyes burrowed deep in to the kid, past the vest and tie, past the muscle and bone of the sternum and deep in to the kid's heart, clutching it with fear. Honest about what? And why did he call him lad? What did it mean?! The interviewer gulped and nodded his head as if to say, "Okay, be honest. Just don't kill me!" The kid stared back, and the shaking got worse. Sweat formed at his brow, but he didnt dare make a sudden movement to wipe it off, he just looked back in to the eyes of the Viking.
"...I don't know a damn one of 'em, but I'm sure I'll beat 'em like I do everyone else. Now if ye don't mind, I'd like ta get back to me drinkin'."
And with that, Cross kicked his feet back up and brought the mug up to the beard that covered his lips once again and gulped the drink down hard. With a sigh of relief, the kid nodded politely and then quickly signaled for the camera-man to follow him on out of there. Sure, he wasn't even close to being killed, but just being in the same room as this guy gave him the chills. And not because he's big, not because he's scary - it was none of the things you'd think at first sight, and none of the things Brett boasts about. Nay, this kid was scared because he never could tell what this lunatic was thinking, he had no idea what was going on inside his head.
And perhaps that's one of the reasons Brett has been so impressive in The Asylum. Sure, he's strong. Sure, he's big. Sure, he's ruthless and aggressive and takes the punishment and dishes it out worse. But beyond all of that, maybe his greatest weapon was how try as one might, they just couldn't get inside his head. They could never be one step ahead of him because he just isn't like all of us. And he's not even a special kind of us, he isn't even one of us. We may see him as a freak, a monster, a schizophrenic loser. But to be fair, this schizophrenic loser has an impressive and growing record, so he must be doing something right. And that something might just be that he does not play by our rules, because he just isn't one of us. No matter what we'd like to think, in his mind he's a Viking, he's The Norse Hammer, he's The God of Midgaard.
And in the end, what you think about yourself is all that matters.
