Post by Mr. C on Dec 14, 2008 11:50:39 GMT -5
What was unknown to the “Reflection of Perfection” Sean England was that Dean Christopher, his manager if you have yet to actually follow this joke, and the EUW corporate officials who were there were not mad at how he entered - they were mad he entered at all. Dean Christopher had appeared nervous for the longevity of the interview, why? Brett Cross, a mountain of a man, has never been known to keep his temper in check. To rant and rave on him is one thing, but a mindless rant with no actual research would fire this competitor up. “The Norse Hammer” respects many superstars in the locker room, and he’s always willing to help out a young up-and-comer. But, the words of Sean England really fired him up.
The reason they were all nervous? They didn’t want anyone to get hurt this coming Monday. It was a mismatch at best, no matter what England had done in his past, whether he was returning to “perfect” form after some kind of hiatus or was just starting out was irrelevant. In EUW, he’s a rookie, and in real life, he’s almost a whole foot shorter and one hundred pounds lighter. As England left the arena, proud of himself, he never got to see who was behind that promo curtain.
Standing back there was Brett Cross attempting his best shot at being formal. Wearing a large tunic, with fur accents on the hemming and the arm-holes, and a pair of thick cotton trousers beneath tucked in to his leather wrestling boots, Brett Cross had every intention of wishing the new guy luck. He sat back there waiting, he had no ill-will towards England, and he thought the two of them could put on a great show - a real David vs. Goliath kind of deal. He didn’t believe in that heel and face garbage that the EUW used to push matches. But, he quickly learned the hard way that it isn’t just what the EUW chooses for wrestlers when he heard the boo’s of the crowd when England was finally announced. Brett stood and peaked out behind the curtain, standing behind Dean Christopher and the EUW executives as Mr. Perfect went through his impromptu shoot promo. Half-way through, Brett’s breathing had grown heavy, his nostrils flared over his rugged, golden beard. His thick brow molded inward, furrowing and glaring. When Sean England finished, he made his way off with Dean Christopher, and only one of them knew what had really happened.
Getting up from his seat, the MC of the event slowly made his way up to the podium, Jack Rodgers was dressed nice, like usual. His attire looked fine, a fancy suit and Christmassy tie, but his face was struggling to keep up a smile and an upbeat look. If last week’s interference wasn’t enough, and Brett was willing to push it aside for now because it was Joe Dark showing that perhaps their scuffle was not completed, then a naïve and ignorant vignette like that would push Cross over the top. With a quiver noticeable to those who listened for it, Rodgers spoke.
“Well, strong words from Sean England! Strong words indeed! I guess he didn’t see who was behind this curtain, but I’m sure you all know who’s coming out next!”
CROSS! CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!
Rodgers was barely able to finish his introduction before the masses in front of the stage began their chant. Jack Rodgers smiled and stepped back, this was as good of a cue as any for the big man. Pressing aside the curtain, Brett made his way out on to the stage and to the podium, front and center. The scene was quite humorous, it looked like a T-Rex and a phone booth, Brett Cross standing at this podium. But he was aware he wouldn’t need the microphones regardless. Smoothing down his furred tunic while he waited for the cheers to die down, Cross glared out over the masses. His hair was draped around his face, snaking its way down over his ears, and his long golden beard covered from his nose down, all that was needed was this visual of his eyes to show the anger. Biceps rippled and bulged as they protruded from his vest. His lips curled back in to a weird, angry smirk. This image now, the image of a man standing nearly seven feet tall, and his weight flushed out by muscles on top of muscles, it was a wonder why anyone would try and tick him off.
“Ach, thank ye, thank ye. Ah don’t normally do these, but I’m slowly enterin’ the bigger picture in EUW, engagin’ in bigger feuds, so Ah was told t’come out and speak on Joe Dark, Christian and of course Sean England.”
His voice boomed out across the scene, he didn’t need the microphones at all. It was almost an omnipotent sound; it didn’t seem to come from his mouth so much as just being in the room. And the words he spoke all rolled off of his tongue. He spoke in a strange variation of English, but coming from him it appeared natural, not forced. But, as his rant continued, the words he spoke differently faded, and it all turned to the English that we knew. He was no longer concentrating on speaking the golden tongue required in Asgaard, he was focused on destroying Sean England.
“Joe Dark, ach lad, ye sure ‘ave been a thorn in my side for some time! But, Ah can’t be mad at ye. You, much like I, are a part of the Eh-Team fam’ly. We are an elite crew, hand chosen by one of the greats of EUW and professional wrestling as a whole. Ah respect what ye’re doin’, but just be prepared for when we meet again, because I will not ‘old back. And Christian? Good show, lad. You, Ah’m sure, are not pleased with the outcome. Nor am Ah! Ah’m sure we’ll ‘ave our shot at each other in the near future, and ah look forward to’t. But, Sean England, as much respect as ah’ve got for these two, ah’ve lost it for you.
Brett clamped two hands down on the sides of the podium, to iron clamps that challenged the wood not to snap beneath them. Brett was not pleased at all, the animosity shown through his eyes.
“It’s my culture to fight for honor, to fight for glory and pride. Your life should be lived in quest of these, and your afterlife is decided by them. Only those with the most glory and honor enter Valhalla. You, you weak little pig will not. I would say everyone in this business is a true warrior in their own right, and you are a disgrace t’the word.
My look, my speech, my deeds. They’re nay just a gimmick. Nor do Ah ‘ave a problem with ye using a gimmick to strengthen your career. But ta use a false label is something I will not tolerate. You call ye’rself perfect and ye’r nary such a thing. Ah don’t know about yer past, ah know about your present, and ah know that a couple of tag-team victories do not make you perfect. If anything, they make ye a puss and a coward. If ye think I’m a joke, I cannot wait to bring the Hammer Mjollnir down upon ye. When I break your skull with’t, I wonder how you will manipulate things to keep ye’r name, your “perfection.”
I would also like you t’know that I did nary struggle last week nor ever in my life. I’m a beast of a man, a menace, and ah came out on top regardless, that is what matters when the sun sets. See, to talk about struggle… when have you not had something ‘anded to you? You have a handful of tag team victories, where ye had another man watching ye’r back. Big deal, lad. Big bloody, fucking deal. I’ve won week in and week out by mahself. I have nothin’ ta prove and you do. Ta not fear me is ridiculous, England.”
Brett took a step back from the podium and spat down on to the stage, then stomped the spittle in to the carpet, grinding it in with the sole of his boot. He returned back to the podium and leaned on to it, the wood groaning beneath his weight. His eyes never lost that anger, that animosity, that intensity. And they gave no hint of losing it by Monday.
“And to say these fans make you sick… Hell, lad! You make me sick! I spit on the ground thinking of ye. Ye’r mind is filled with falsification, with nonsense. Ye’r a joke and I’ve accomplished far more in my career, let alone my life, then you could even imagine. I’ve slain beasts you’ve never heard of and could never dream of even having the courage t’face. You’re pathetic swine, and the more I think about it, I would say that you talk the talk just to keep from wetting your pants. You’re a flea compared to me, a little pinprick, a pussycat. I’m bigger than you and stronger than you. I’m even faster than you, believe it or not. Ask any of the men who’ve been crushed by the hammer. It strikes fast, and it strikes hard. And, to finish things off, you ended your speech with an insult to my intelligence? We’ll see if you’re able to remember your name after our match, much less form words. I’m going to break your skull and spill your brains out on the mat with one swift crash from The Hammer Mjollnir.”
To emphasize his point, Brett clasped both of his fists together and then slammed them down on to the top of the podium. With one quick blast, the podium splintered in to pieces, and all the EUW fans in the front row left with a little souvenir. Brett Cross, The Norse Hammer, reached down with one big, burly hand, and picked up a microphone that had fallen to his feet in the destruction. He then made his way back to Jack Rodgers and thrust the microphone in to his chest, causing him to flip backwards in his chair. Then, with the crowd laughing loudly at the scene, Cross’ new theme, “Hermod’s Ride to Hell” by Amon Amarth blasted out over the speaker system as he hopped down from the stage and exited the mall.
The reason they were all nervous? They didn’t want anyone to get hurt this coming Monday. It was a mismatch at best, no matter what England had done in his past, whether he was returning to “perfect” form after some kind of hiatus or was just starting out was irrelevant. In EUW, he’s a rookie, and in real life, he’s almost a whole foot shorter and one hundred pounds lighter. As England left the arena, proud of himself, he never got to see who was behind that promo curtain.
Standing back there was Brett Cross attempting his best shot at being formal. Wearing a large tunic, with fur accents on the hemming and the arm-holes, and a pair of thick cotton trousers beneath tucked in to his leather wrestling boots, Brett Cross had every intention of wishing the new guy luck. He sat back there waiting, he had no ill-will towards England, and he thought the two of them could put on a great show - a real David vs. Goliath kind of deal. He didn’t believe in that heel and face garbage that the EUW used to push matches. But, he quickly learned the hard way that it isn’t just what the EUW chooses for wrestlers when he heard the boo’s of the crowd when England was finally announced. Brett stood and peaked out behind the curtain, standing behind Dean Christopher and the EUW executives as Mr. Perfect went through his impromptu shoot promo. Half-way through, Brett’s breathing had grown heavy, his nostrils flared over his rugged, golden beard. His thick brow molded inward, furrowing and glaring. When Sean England finished, he made his way off with Dean Christopher, and only one of them knew what had really happened.
Getting up from his seat, the MC of the event slowly made his way up to the podium, Jack Rodgers was dressed nice, like usual. His attire looked fine, a fancy suit and Christmassy tie, but his face was struggling to keep up a smile and an upbeat look. If last week’s interference wasn’t enough, and Brett was willing to push it aside for now because it was Joe Dark showing that perhaps their scuffle was not completed, then a naïve and ignorant vignette like that would push Cross over the top. With a quiver noticeable to those who listened for it, Rodgers spoke.
“Well, strong words from Sean England! Strong words indeed! I guess he didn’t see who was behind this curtain, but I’m sure you all know who’s coming out next!”
CROSS! CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!
Rodgers was barely able to finish his introduction before the masses in front of the stage began their chant. Jack Rodgers smiled and stepped back, this was as good of a cue as any for the big man. Pressing aside the curtain, Brett made his way out on to the stage and to the podium, front and center. The scene was quite humorous, it looked like a T-Rex and a phone booth, Brett Cross standing at this podium. But he was aware he wouldn’t need the microphones regardless. Smoothing down his furred tunic while he waited for the cheers to die down, Cross glared out over the masses. His hair was draped around his face, snaking its way down over his ears, and his long golden beard covered from his nose down, all that was needed was this visual of his eyes to show the anger. Biceps rippled and bulged as they protruded from his vest. His lips curled back in to a weird, angry smirk. This image now, the image of a man standing nearly seven feet tall, and his weight flushed out by muscles on top of muscles, it was a wonder why anyone would try and tick him off.
“Ach, thank ye, thank ye. Ah don’t normally do these, but I’m slowly enterin’ the bigger picture in EUW, engagin’ in bigger feuds, so Ah was told t’come out and speak on Joe Dark, Christian and of course Sean England.”
His voice boomed out across the scene, he didn’t need the microphones at all. It was almost an omnipotent sound; it didn’t seem to come from his mouth so much as just being in the room. And the words he spoke all rolled off of his tongue. He spoke in a strange variation of English, but coming from him it appeared natural, not forced. But, as his rant continued, the words he spoke differently faded, and it all turned to the English that we knew. He was no longer concentrating on speaking the golden tongue required in Asgaard, he was focused on destroying Sean England.
“Joe Dark, ach lad, ye sure ‘ave been a thorn in my side for some time! But, Ah can’t be mad at ye. You, much like I, are a part of the Eh-Team fam’ly. We are an elite crew, hand chosen by one of the greats of EUW and professional wrestling as a whole. Ah respect what ye’re doin’, but just be prepared for when we meet again, because I will not ‘old back. And Christian? Good show, lad. You, Ah’m sure, are not pleased with the outcome. Nor am Ah! Ah’m sure we’ll ‘ave our shot at each other in the near future, and ah look forward to’t. But, Sean England, as much respect as ah’ve got for these two, ah’ve lost it for you.
Brett clamped two hands down on the sides of the podium, to iron clamps that challenged the wood not to snap beneath them. Brett was not pleased at all, the animosity shown through his eyes.
“It’s my culture to fight for honor, to fight for glory and pride. Your life should be lived in quest of these, and your afterlife is decided by them. Only those with the most glory and honor enter Valhalla. You, you weak little pig will not. I would say everyone in this business is a true warrior in their own right, and you are a disgrace t’the word.
My look, my speech, my deeds. They’re nay just a gimmick. Nor do Ah ‘ave a problem with ye using a gimmick to strengthen your career. But ta use a false label is something I will not tolerate. You call ye’rself perfect and ye’r nary such a thing. Ah don’t know about yer past, ah know about your present, and ah know that a couple of tag-team victories do not make you perfect. If anything, they make ye a puss and a coward. If ye think I’m a joke, I cannot wait to bring the Hammer Mjollnir down upon ye. When I break your skull with’t, I wonder how you will manipulate things to keep ye’r name, your “perfection.”
I would also like you t’know that I did nary struggle last week nor ever in my life. I’m a beast of a man, a menace, and ah came out on top regardless, that is what matters when the sun sets. See, to talk about struggle… when have you not had something ‘anded to you? You have a handful of tag team victories, where ye had another man watching ye’r back. Big deal, lad. Big bloody, fucking deal. I’ve won week in and week out by mahself. I have nothin’ ta prove and you do. Ta not fear me is ridiculous, England.”
Brett took a step back from the podium and spat down on to the stage, then stomped the spittle in to the carpet, grinding it in with the sole of his boot. He returned back to the podium and leaned on to it, the wood groaning beneath his weight. His eyes never lost that anger, that animosity, that intensity. And they gave no hint of losing it by Monday.
“And to say these fans make you sick… Hell, lad! You make me sick! I spit on the ground thinking of ye. Ye’r mind is filled with falsification, with nonsense. Ye’r a joke and I’ve accomplished far more in my career, let alone my life, then you could even imagine. I’ve slain beasts you’ve never heard of and could never dream of even having the courage t’face. You’re pathetic swine, and the more I think about it, I would say that you talk the talk just to keep from wetting your pants. You’re a flea compared to me, a little pinprick, a pussycat. I’m bigger than you and stronger than you. I’m even faster than you, believe it or not. Ask any of the men who’ve been crushed by the hammer. It strikes fast, and it strikes hard. And, to finish things off, you ended your speech with an insult to my intelligence? We’ll see if you’re able to remember your name after our match, much less form words. I’m going to break your skull and spill your brains out on the mat with one swift crash from The Hammer Mjollnir.”
To emphasize his point, Brett clasped both of his fists together and then slammed them down on to the top of the podium. With one quick blast, the podium splintered in to pieces, and all the EUW fans in the front row left with a little souvenir. Brett Cross, The Norse Hammer, reached down with one big, burly hand, and picked up a microphone that had fallen to his feet in the destruction. He then made his way back to Jack Rodgers and thrust the microphone in to his chest, causing him to flip backwards in his chair. Then, with the crowd laughing loudly at the scene, Cross’ new theme, “Hermod’s Ride to Hell” by Amon Amarth blasted out over the speaker system as he hopped down from the stage and exited the mall.
