Post by Deleted on Dec 19, 2015 23:13:33 GMT -6
Let us take you back, back to a time long ago. A simpler time, if you will.
Let is call that time almost one week ago.
No.
Let us call that time six days ago.
WrestleFest XIII.
And no, that's not pronounced kuh-see, that's Romanese for 13, actually!
Anyway, the time: some time in the evening, Italian-standard time.
The location: Stadio Olimpico.
The match: the PC-friendly 13-person over-the-top battle royale.
As opposed to the battle royales where you don't go over the top rope, I guess...
Anyway! Onto the action!
Let is call that time almost one week ago.
No.
Let us call that time six days ago.
WrestleFest XIII.
And no, that's not pronounced kuh-see, that's Romanese for 13, actually!
Anyway, the time: some time in the evening, Italian-standard time.
The location: Stadio Olimpico.
The match: the PC-friendly 13-person over-the-top battle royale.
As opposed to the battle royales where you don't go over the top rope, I guess...
Anyway! Onto the action!
Emma Louise was the next to fall to Johnny Bonecrusher. She didn’t like that too much, and hopped back up on the apron and slapped Johnny, distracting him enough to be eliminated by Alexis.
The scene pans out, to reveal it was being replayed on one of those small television sets you used to play Atari 2600 on. It was at least a colour model. Anyway, the TV is set on a podium, and resting his elbow atop it is none other than that very same wrestler who was unceremoniously ejected from the match.
Johnny. Fucking. Bonecrusher.
The Man. The Myth. The Legend.
He shakes his head and with a smirk, rolls his eyes a bit.
"Was I ever so young?"
He then stands up, turning the dial to the TV to "off" or whatever.
"Hi. I'm The Johnimant Species Johnny Bonecrusher. And while I have many other names I've acquired throughout my almost 17 years in this bidniz - some insulting, others not, but never mind that, because no matter how you slice it, I'm The Johnny, you're The Johnny, we're all The Johnny, except no! I'm the only The Johnny and anyone else named Johnny can head on outta here! Like the Highlander, there can be only one, son!"
JBC kicks the TV off the podium, and it crashes onto the floor, but it's okay, because those older models were built to last. Never mind the smoking.
"But anyway, onto an applicable diatribe! As you all saw, Yours Truly decided to have yet another go at this whole wrasslin' thang, and yet again, The Johnny fell short. And buddy, when The Johnny falls, The Johnny fuckin' falls! Heh heh heh."
He chuckles to himself, eyes closed and shaking his slightly-hung head. He then stops and inhales deeply. His eyes open, glaring at the camera.
"What happened at King of the Cage, what happened at WrestleFest XIII, that wasn't me. I mean, yeah it was me, but it wasn't me too, you know? Maybe The Johnny's gotta put this in another way..."
He clears his throat.
"Let me... make... one thing... PERFECTLY CLEAR!!!"
Ahh, there's that lovely lovely catchphrase that gets all the ladies runnin'. Some even in his general direction!
"The Johnny never got to that sweet sweet Legendary status by accumulating countless title belts, thousands of victories and been in movies and Kids' Choice Award shows like some candy-ass jabroni."
Johny pauses.
"You heard me."
He exits whatever room he was in. Who cares, it doesn't matter.
Hopefully it doesn't burn down though.
"The, uh- what was I saying? ...Ah, yeah, The Johnny got to this level by dipping his toes in each and every aspect of this bidniz. It's like I've been saying for years now: I've done it all and then some! I can drop the wrestling and become a manager, drop the managing and become a trainer, drop the training and basically do whatever the fuck it is I wanna do! I've got experience for days, son! Weeks!
And when it comes to sustainability, that's what you've gotta do in order to survive, ya rudies! Learn, adapt, grow, diversify your fuckin' asses!"
The next room JBC enters, a butler walks up to him hoding out a plate with a gin and tonic (or so you've been lead to believe!) as well as a high-quality stogie resting on a fancy ashtray. Johnny takes both drink and cigar in each hand, and a maid walks up, draping JBC in a smoking jacket, proceeded by her lighting his cigar.
He nods in approval at both servants, and takes a few puffs from the Cubano Que Rico.
"What does this all mean? Where am I even going with all this?"
Johnny takes a sip from his adult beverage, then clamps down on his cigar.
"Good queshtion, kidsh, good queshtion. Follow me."
Johnny walks down a long and wide hallway, a red carpet rolled out as he walks forward. To the sides are scores of butlers and maids bowing just before he passes each one. He takes another drag from his nasty habit, then takes it out of his mouth.
"You see, boys and girls, Yours Truly was worried about his legacy, believe it or not. What would his imprint in pro wrestling look like? Would it be deep enough that people would notice? Would it be filled with the wisdom of the motherfuckin' ages and shit? Would people rank The Pre-Millennium Wrestler among the very best this industry produced?
Well fuuuuuck that, first of all! The Johnny ain't no pack of Skittles! He ain't a fine-quality tennis racket! Is he?! Nah. The Johnny's a professional wrestler. He was made by people who gave him a chance, he rose through the ranks by having the skills, and he entered the Halls of Fame because the fans thought This Bald Bastard™®© was worth it.
Now, I don't wanna toot my own horn or anything, but - toot! toot! - that's a big fuckin' deal to me. Guys here like X who want to revise history in order to exclude one's accolades outside the EWC... they can't take that away from me. You go tell the fans they're not allowed to recognize Yours Truly. Tell me how that goes for you. But forget that for now."
Johnny is lured to a super-plush throne one could just fall asleep in. He eases into it, resting his stogie in the same ashtray from earlier, which is now resting on top of a small side table. The table is intricately designed and made out of oak or some shit. He also rests his drink on the same table, but then picks it back up right away in order to steal a couple more sips.
"Ahh!"
Johnny's satisfied exhale seems to coincide with the turning of the throne and side table so they face the roaring fire. His shoes are removed and slippers are slipped on in their place. A rolled-up newspaper is gently placed on his lap. He unfurls it and the cover is revealed:
He scans through page after page before chuckling to himself and rolling the publication back up. Oh, I guess it was a wresting newspaper? Are those even a thing?
"That King Flip, always up to somethin'!"
He chuckles some more before tossing the newspaper aside.
"I don't even know what it is I exactly wanna say, man! I'm all over the place here! The Johnny's an Ideas Man, see? I've got so many thoughts and words for days to boot, so I wanna pack in as much Johnny goodness before I get too busy for these charming heart-to-heart talks with you Crushinators or Johnnynites or whatever it is you wanna call yourselves."
More sips, more drags.
"That being said, I wasn't joking when I said I wanted to get back into kickin' that ass on the regular, folks. To that end, I've been keeping a close eye or two on every Brawl and Rampage, as well as FSW and NJFC. People might, might remember that Yours Truly was indeed in NJFC, managing that ever-elusive The O, and was about to manage Jerry Slickness in the FSW before... well, let's just say, The Johnny got in wayyyyy over his head too soon, and so all the best laid plans of mice and Johnnys went up in smoke."
Johnny picks the stogie up again, examining it as well as the smoke that slowly threads out of the hot burny end. He presses it to his lips, sucking on it a few times, and that didn't sound weird to you at all.
"But now? Nowwwww, I got some plans, son!"
He clamps the cigar in between his teeth.
"I got shome plansh. An' I love it when plansh come togedder."
He chuckles, forcing smoke out of his mouth as well as the cigar as he does. He takes another drag from it before putting it out inside the ashtray. He finishes off his drink, tosses the cup hard into the fire, and gets up, kicking over the throne. He tears off his smoking jacket, then kicks over the end table.
"Because that shit ain't me, boys and girls! It's nice to play dress-up, play pretend..."
Johnny walks up to the opposite wall of the room, and somehow manages to kick the wall in, AS IF IT WERE MEANT TO BREAK AWAY LIKE THAT BUT SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT THAT, and he walks on through to a completely different scene: the outdoors, where scores of fans await his presence, cheering, "JBC! JBC! JBC!"
And they weren't even paid to chant that shit!
Well, maybe they were, who are you, a private investigator or something? Shit...
"...But eventually, you gotta put on your wrasslin' gear and do what you were born to do: fuck everybody's days up! EWC, I'm coming soon... and you can put that in your pipes and take it all the way to the bank!"
And with that, JBC advances slowly on the increasingly-audible fans.
THE END... or just some fuckin' tacky lame-ass wack-ass "ONLY THE BEGINNING?" bullshit?
Johnny. Fucking. Bonecrusher.
The Man. The Myth. The Legend.
He shakes his head and with a smirk, rolls his eyes a bit.
"Was I ever so young?"
He then stands up, turning the dial to the TV to "off" or whatever.
"Hi. I'm The Johnimant Species Johnny Bonecrusher. And while I have many other names I've acquired throughout my almost 17 years in this bidniz - some insulting, others not, but never mind that, because no matter how you slice it, I'm The Johnny, you're The Johnny, we're all The Johnny, except no! I'm the only The Johnny and anyone else named Johnny can head on outta here! Like the Highlander, there can be only one, son!"
JBC kicks the TV off the podium, and it crashes onto the floor, but it's okay, because those older models were built to last. Never mind the smoking.
"But anyway, onto an applicable diatribe! As you all saw, Yours Truly decided to have yet another go at this whole wrasslin' thang, and yet again, The Johnny fell short. And buddy, when The Johnny falls, The Johnny fuckin' falls! Heh heh heh."
He chuckles to himself, eyes closed and shaking his slightly-hung head. He then stops and inhales deeply. His eyes open, glaring at the camera.
"What happened at King of the Cage, what happened at WrestleFest XIII, that wasn't me. I mean, yeah it was me, but it wasn't me too, you know? Maybe The Johnny's gotta put this in another way..."
He clears his throat.
"Let me... make... one thing... PERFECTLY CLEAR!!!"
Ahh, there's that lovely lovely catchphrase that gets all the ladies runnin'. Some even in his general direction!
"The Johnny never got to that sweet sweet Legendary status by accumulating countless title belts, thousands of victories and been in movies and Kids' Choice Award shows like some candy-ass jabroni."
Johny pauses.
"You heard me."
He exits whatever room he was in. Who cares, it doesn't matter.
Hopefully it doesn't burn down though.
"The, uh- what was I saying? ...Ah, yeah, The Johnny got to this level by dipping his toes in each and every aspect of this bidniz. It's like I've been saying for years now: I've done it all and then some! I can drop the wrestling and become a manager, drop the managing and become a trainer, drop the training and basically do whatever the fuck it is I wanna do! I've got experience for days, son! Weeks!
And when it comes to sustainability, that's what you've gotta do in order to survive, ya rudies! Learn, adapt, grow, diversify your fuckin' asses!"
The next room JBC enters, a butler walks up to him hoding out a plate with a gin and tonic (or so you've been lead to believe!) as well as a high-quality stogie resting on a fancy ashtray. Johnny takes both drink and cigar in each hand, and a maid walks up, draping JBC in a smoking jacket, proceeded by her lighting his cigar.
He nods in approval at both servants, and takes a few puffs from the Cubano Que Rico.
"What does this all mean? Where am I even going with all this?"
Johnny takes a sip from his adult beverage, then clamps down on his cigar.
"Good queshtion, kidsh, good queshtion. Follow me."
Johnny walks down a long and wide hallway, a red carpet rolled out as he walks forward. To the sides are scores of butlers and maids bowing just before he passes each one. He takes another drag from his nasty habit, then takes it out of his mouth.
"You see, boys and girls, Yours Truly was worried about his legacy, believe it or not. What would his imprint in pro wrestling look like? Would it be deep enough that people would notice? Would it be filled with the wisdom of the motherfuckin' ages and shit? Would people rank The Pre-Millennium Wrestler among the very best this industry produced?
Well fuuuuuck that, first of all! The Johnny ain't no pack of Skittles! He ain't a fine-quality tennis racket! Is he?! Nah. The Johnny's a professional wrestler. He was made by people who gave him a chance, he rose through the ranks by having the skills, and he entered the Halls of Fame because the fans thought This Bald Bastard™®© was worth it.
Now, I don't wanna toot my own horn or anything, but - toot! toot! - that's a big fuckin' deal to me. Guys here like X who want to revise history in order to exclude one's accolades outside the EWC... they can't take that away from me. You go tell the fans they're not allowed to recognize Yours Truly. Tell me how that goes for you. But forget that for now."
Johnny is lured to a super-plush throne one could just fall asleep in. He eases into it, resting his stogie in the same ashtray from earlier, which is now resting on top of a small side table. The table is intricately designed and made out of oak or some shit. He also rests his drink on the same table, but then picks it back up right away in order to steal a couple more sips.
"Ahh!"
Johnny's satisfied exhale seems to coincide with the turning of the throne and side table so they face the roaring fire. His shoes are removed and slippers are slipped on in their place. A rolled-up newspaper is gently placed on his lap. He unfurls it and the cover is revealed:
JBC to MNB or FNR?
He scans through page after page before chuckling to himself and rolling the publication back up. Oh, I guess it was a wresting newspaper? Are those even a thing?
"That King Flip, always up to somethin'!"
He chuckles some more before tossing the newspaper aside.
"I don't even know what it is I exactly wanna say, man! I'm all over the place here! The Johnny's an Ideas Man, see? I've got so many thoughts and words for days to boot, so I wanna pack in as much Johnny goodness before I get too busy for these charming heart-to-heart talks with you Crushinators or Johnnynites or whatever it is you wanna call yourselves."
More sips, more drags.
"That being said, I wasn't joking when I said I wanted to get back into kickin' that ass on the regular, folks. To that end, I've been keeping a close eye or two on every Brawl and Rampage, as well as FSW and NJFC. People might, might remember that Yours Truly was indeed in NJFC, managing that ever-elusive The O, and was about to manage Jerry Slickness in the FSW before... well, let's just say, The Johnny got in wayyyyy over his head too soon, and so all the best laid plans of mice and Johnnys went up in smoke."
Johnny picks the stogie up again, examining it as well as the smoke that slowly threads out of the hot burny end. He presses it to his lips, sucking on it a few times, and that didn't sound weird to you at all.
"But now? Nowwwww, I got some plans, son!"
He clamps the cigar in between his teeth.
"I got shome plansh. An' I love it when plansh come togedder."
He chuckles, forcing smoke out of his mouth as well as the cigar as he does. He takes another drag from it before putting it out inside the ashtray. He finishes off his drink, tosses the cup hard into the fire, and gets up, kicking over the throne. He tears off his smoking jacket, then kicks over the end table.
"Because that shit ain't me, boys and girls! It's nice to play dress-up, play pretend..."
Johnny walks up to the opposite wall of the room, and somehow manages to kick the wall in, AS IF IT WERE MEANT TO BREAK AWAY LIKE THAT BUT SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT THAT, and he walks on through to a completely different scene: the outdoors, where scores of fans await his presence, cheering, "JBC! JBC! JBC!"
And they weren't even paid to chant that shit!
Well, maybe they were, who are you, a private investigator or something? Shit...
"...But eventually, you gotta put on your wrasslin' gear and do what you were born to do: fuck everybody's days up! EWC, I'm coming soon... and you can put that in your pipes and take it all the way to the bank!"
And with that, JBC advances slowly on the increasingly-audible fans.
THE END... or just some fuckin' tacky lame-ass wack-ass "ONLY THE BEGINNING?" bullshit?