Prisoner.
May 18, 2023 20:02:42 GMT -6
Jason Anderson The Boss, Stephanie Matsuda, and 2 more like this
Post by The Mad King on May 18, 2023 20:02:42 GMT -6
Scene I; Fumbled Memory.
Song Inspiration: 'The Red' by Chevelle
For seventy-two hours, The Mad King remained locked in his chambers. He could be approached by noone; however, it wasn't like anyone was actually reaching out to him. His words are his bane, his Achilles heel, and they have never brought him true friendship. Not anymore. Nobody seems to understand this sad little clown.
Oh, sorry. Appearances.
When last we left our heroes: King Flip and Chanel both had incredibly busy nights at Hardcore Revolution. Ultimately, The Mad King would not walk away from the title versus title three stages of hell conquest the victor. Disappointed, he has locked himself in the same office with which he cut the Revo-promo if you will. Maddened further than our hero had already been cracking, the night plays on repeat in his mind. He has watched the tape at least three dozen times, the entire program start to finish, the entire encounter. He closes his eyes during breaks in the video and can recall every time he quickly tapped, blinking, stomping his foot on the ground, and moving on to the next spot. The next painful memory.
Meanwhile, Chanel was certainly a very busy girl. Making sure Flip's tag team partner, who we'll get to shortly, had their music play while Stroup announced them. Nobody asked her to do that. Nobody asked her to strike Buddy Love down with a chair but she did that, too. Chanel has been clasping onto a Gambit contract, unsure if she should sign it, heavily wavered by Flips offhand dismissal of the ide when presented, and heavily overcompensating at the Pay Per View because of it. Chanel feels emotionally what The Mad King feels physically in this same moment; immense pain.
The Mad King slowly breathes behind his ridiculously expensive desk. The same photographs, From Duncan to Miss James, all still in place. The photograph on the left, his kids, faces the dark red wood of the desk. He can't look at it. He failed them. Again.
The Mad King: I wonder...
He winces heavily, drawing his cell phone off the desk to dial a number.
The Mad King: I don't know why you don't answer your phone, Jack Severn.
The phone makes its little ring sound and, again, eventually, King reaches Jack Severn's voice-mail. Beeeep.
The Mad King: Jack-ayyy, my man. The Flip and Jack Connection should be a thing again. Think about it. We'll come in, fresh angle, no hokey shit. Really that was my bad, my baggage, ahaha, but anyway... y'know man, just call me back.
Flip hangs up his phone, holding back his emotions as well as a cough, and tosses the cell back in its place upon the desk. He does end up coughing for nearly a minute. He checks his hand, no blood. He smiles.
The Mad King: That Stitches, huh? How the hell they expect Crimson Masquerade to trust each other if one is sending the other into skin-damaging pipes. With a chair to the face that he'd come back and beat the crap out of me with some more. What the hell, man!?
Another coughing fit, another verbal break. Who is he speaking to? Nobody else is in this room with him. The wall behind him still decorated with championships from corner to corner. He lifts the Pure Sadistic Wrestling World Heavyweight championship off its hooks, the plaque denoting the year 2003. A soft chuckle cracks through a lighter cough for a moment as he returns to his seat.
The Mad King: You don't have to remind, me, Georgia. I know Crimson Masquerade still works, I just know these fucking marks are all going to cry StrangleCHOKEmania or whatever simple ass diatribe they come forth with, and I'm already irritated about it. I didn't even win the fall I won because of that GODDAMN clown and his GODDAMN schedule. I...
His concentration breaks as if someone is interrupting him. King Flip doesn't seem to like what he's hearing. One more photograph faces the desk. He takes a deep sigh as his eye finally focus on one particular photograph. His lip quivers.
The Mad King: I should've told you then and there, those stupid fucking roses...
He begins to weep. Another photograph now faces the desk, face down, no longer staring at the King as he continues breaking in front of nobody. Breaking in front of himself. All that remain now are Duncan and his storyline brother, Juncko the Clown. His eyes grow fierce as he glares as his old brother. A menace of his past. King shakes the PSW World title in his palms because he remembers. From the Cain Brodie level aggravations that were never followed through with to every drum-shattering "LOOK OUT" he'd yell for no reason at all. He remembers madness. He understands madness. He looks back on the wall, sitting at the end of the second row is a SmackDown Hotel World's Tag Team championship with Juncko's name accompanied on the placard. This one also reads 2003.
The Mad King: Why, the Great Game has only just begun, hasn't it, dear brother? HISTORY... repeating itself, perhaps, perhaps not. Who's to know? Well... as you would've said, 'It may be Junck in the TRUNK, but the NOGGINS HOT FIRE'.
He chuckles in his momentary reminiscence. Another fleeting grasp at something, he shakes his head. He has nothing to grasp. Nothing but his memories. He stands again, nearly toppling over, having just cut that non-canonically short piece for Uprising. He still looks an absolute wreck, folks.
The Mad King: Remember. That was the message for the Great Game. Remember. And I left them an evening they'll never forget. Of course a fool only thinks he can pull out an old finisher, top of the cell, not really thinking he's about to relive Goddamn INSANITY again... but the Great Game, you see. The Great Game was always about the spot. It was about the fucking spot in that five way at Wrestlefest against El Pablo. In a perfect world, HIS COLORFUL ASS would've been the one taking a firey little nap. Not me! And during the Cage, Night of Champions, same problem. Same ending. Because the Great Game always goes for the big final spot. And believe me when I tell you that bitch Lavender deserved it. Now... did Melinda Rhodes deserve it? You bet your bottom Robert Dinero, Junck. I'd do it all again. Three inches, brother. THREE. And that night ends differently. But... The Mad King, though deserving of a rematch as he may be...
Another soft chuckle to himself, another photograph now facedown on the desk. It seems another photograph was added at some point, it's nose peeking out from the back. Flip chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and flicks the photograph crashing to the floor.
The Mad King: Lick my ass, Hall of Fame. They let Sanders into that shit, don't nobody even need to remember your dumb ass. You only serve as a reminder to me, son. A reminder of everything you avoided, a gentle prod at everything I've never been, and a classic example of everything I have always strived to destroy. You are garbage and, as a matter of fact.
He picks up Ol' Nosey and drops his broken picture frame in the small recycling bin. Cry about it. He coughs, slipping almost as he finally replaces the old World title on the wall. He squints at it. He remembers. And now they do, too.
The Mad King: Kruzer, that wild son of a bitch. You don't run a company called Pure Sadistic Wrestling, in a stable called Psych Ward -- that he ended up bringing to EWC at some point, the truly mad motherfucker -- and if that man and his sister lover what the fuck ever, Jezabel, or sometimes Jezzabel but you say them the fucking same, anyway. It was me and him. He, the owner, the world champion. He put me through the hood of my limo. Bashed my skull against the concrete, but it was me that night. Because of the Great Game. I hit 'The Cure,' then titled 'The Prophecy' if you remember... hahaha, what a piece of work I've been. Anyway. I beat him that night and I can say I held this title for eleven months. Time and time again they sent man after man after me... still The Mad King remained, the Great Game still to be played. Ah... Kingpin. I really wish I had a guy like you right now. Just a big, beefy, JoJo Rush type, yeah. The Game, and it's all about the game and how ya play it, as you'd likely remind in that cold, stern, bad motherfucker voice of yours. Haha...
He scoffs, placing the last photo down.
The Mad King: While a wild, entertaining thought... JoJo Rush is not my Diesel and I am not his Shawn Micheals. As unfortunate a statement as that is to make. I think we'd probably get along well enough, but, I dunno. Seems a little too Clay Byrd or... Brett Black for my palette.
A taste slaps in Flip's mouth a moment as he tries striking it away with his tongue.
The Mad King happily fires up to his feet almost jumping in place. Finally. Someone remembers. Someone knows. Someone never forgot. He rushes from the seated side of the desk at this glorious grandfather clock. A clock which, I must remind you, was not in this room until it gonged so heavily.
The Mad King: AEON, FINALLY! YE-HEH-HEEEEESSS!! YOU BEAUTIFUL WIZARD, LEMME SEE THAT SMILE, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD!!
King Flip opens the grandfather clock. In the distance, a soft Nurse Kinsley style chuckle can be heard in the distance. Flip fires around, pained, wincing, but at the ready. Nobody's there, still. The King worries the grandfather clock, why, it may also not be there.
King Flip turns around.
Song Inspiration: 'The Red' by Chevelle
For seventy-two hours, The Mad King remained locked in his chambers. He could be approached by noone; however, it wasn't like anyone was actually reaching out to him. His words are his bane, his Achilles heel, and they have never brought him true friendship. Not anymore. Nobody seems to understand this sad little clown.
Oh, sorry. Appearances.
When last we left our heroes: King Flip and Chanel both had incredibly busy nights at Hardcore Revolution. Ultimately, The Mad King would not walk away from the title versus title three stages of hell conquest the victor. Disappointed, he has locked himself in the same office with which he cut the Revo-promo if you will. Maddened further than our hero had already been cracking, the night plays on repeat in his mind. He has watched the tape at least three dozen times, the entire program start to finish, the entire encounter. He closes his eyes during breaks in the video and can recall every time he quickly tapped, blinking, stomping his foot on the ground, and moving on to the next spot. The next painful memory.
Meanwhile, Chanel was certainly a very busy girl. Making sure Flip's tag team partner, who we'll get to shortly, had their music play while Stroup announced them. Nobody asked her to do that. Nobody asked her to strike Buddy Love down with a chair but she did that, too. Chanel has been clasping onto a Gambit contract, unsure if she should sign it, heavily wavered by Flips offhand dismissal of the ide when presented, and heavily overcompensating at the Pay Per View because of it. Chanel feels emotionally what The Mad King feels physically in this same moment; immense pain.
The Mad King slowly breathes behind his ridiculously expensive desk. The same photographs, From Duncan to Miss James, all still in place. The photograph on the left, his kids, faces the dark red wood of the desk. He can't look at it. He failed them. Again.
The Mad King: I wonder...
He winces heavily, drawing his cell phone off the desk to dial a number.
The Mad King: I don't know why you don't answer your phone, Jack Severn.
The phone makes its little ring sound and, again, eventually, King reaches Jack Severn's voice-mail. Beeeep.
The Mad King: Jack-ayyy, my man. The Flip and Jack Connection should be a thing again. Think about it. We'll come in, fresh angle, no hokey shit. Really that was my bad, my baggage, ahaha, but anyway... y'know man, just call me back.
Flip hangs up his phone, holding back his emotions as well as a cough, and tosses the cell back in its place upon the desk. He does end up coughing for nearly a minute. He checks his hand, no blood. He smiles.
The Mad King: That Stitches, huh? How the hell they expect Crimson Masquerade to trust each other if one is sending the other into skin-damaging pipes. With a chair to the face that he'd come back and beat the crap out of me with some more. What the hell, man!?
Another coughing fit, another verbal break. Who is he speaking to? Nobody else is in this room with him. The wall behind him still decorated with championships from corner to corner. He lifts the Pure Sadistic Wrestling World Heavyweight championship off its hooks, the plaque denoting the year 2003. A soft chuckle cracks through a lighter cough for a moment as he returns to his seat.
The Mad King: You don't have to remind, me, Georgia. I know Crimson Masquerade still works, I just know these fucking marks are all going to cry StrangleCHOKEmania or whatever simple ass diatribe they come forth with, and I'm already irritated about it. I didn't even win the fall I won because of that GODDAMN clown and his GODDAMN schedule. I...
His concentration breaks as if someone is interrupting him. King Flip doesn't seem to like what he's hearing. One more photograph faces the desk. He takes a deep sigh as his eye finally focus on one particular photograph. His lip quivers.
The Mad King: I should've told you then and there, those stupid fucking roses...
He begins to weep. Another photograph now faces the desk, face down, no longer staring at the King as he continues breaking in front of nobody. Breaking in front of himself. All that remain now are Duncan and his storyline brother, Juncko the Clown. His eyes grow fierce as he glares as his old brother. A menace of his past. King shakes the PSW World title in his palms because he remembers. From the Cain Brodie level aggravations that were never followed through with to every drum-shattering "LOOK OUT" he'd yell for no reason at all. He remembers madness. He understands madness. He looks back on the wall, sitting at the end of the second row is a SmackDown Hotel World's Tag Team championship with Juncko's name accompanied on the placard. This one also reads 2003.
The Mad King: Why, the Great Game has only just begun, hasn't it, dear brother? HISTORY... repeating itself, perhaps, perhaps not. Who's to know? Well... as you would've said, 'It may be Junck in the TRUNK, but the NOGGINS HOT FIRE'.
He chuckles in his momentary reminiscence. Another fleeting grasp at something, he shakes his head. He has nothing to grasp. Nothing but his memories. He stands again, nearly toppling over, having just cut that non-canonically short piece for Uprising. He still looks an absolute wreck, folks.
The Mad King: Remember. That was the message for the Great Game. Remember. And I left them an evening they'll never forget. Of course a fool only thinks he can pull out an old finisher, top of the cell, not really thinking he's about to relive Goddamn INSANITY again... but the Great Game, you see. The Great Game was always about the spot. It was about the fucking spot in that five way at Wrestlefest against El Pablo. In a perfect world, HIS COLORFUL ASS would've been the one taking a firey little nap. Not me! And during the Cage, Night of Champions, same problem. Same ending. Because the Great Game always goes for the big final spot. And believe me when I tell you that bitch Lavender deserved it. Now... did Melinda Rhodes deserve it? You bet your bottom Robert Dinero, Junck. I'd do it all again. Three inches, brother. THREE. And that night ends differently. But... The Mad King, though deserving of a rematch as he may be...
Another soft chuckle to himself, another photograph now facedown on the desk. It seems another photograph was added at some point, it's nose peeking out from the back. Flip chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and flicks the photograph crashing to the floor.
The Mad King: Lick my ass, Hall of Fame. They let Sanders into that shit, don't nobody even need to remember your dumb ass. You only serve as a reminder to me, son. A reminder of everything you avoided, a gentle prod at everything I've never been, and a classic example of everything I have always strived to destroy. You are garbage and, as a matter of fact.
He picks up Ol' Nosey and drops his broken picture frame in the small recycling bin. Cry about it. He coughs, slipping almost as he finally replaces the old World title on the wall. He squints at it. He remembers. And now they do, too.
The Mad King: Kruzer, that wild son of a bitch. You don't run a company called Pure Sadistic Wrestling, in a stable called Psych Ward -- that he ended up bringing to EWC at some point, the truly mad motherfucker -- and if that man and his sister lover what the fuck ever, Jezabel, or sometimes Jezzabel but you say them the fucking same, anyway. It was me and him. He, the owner, the world champion. He put me through the hood of my limo. Bashed my skull against the concrete, but it was me that night. Because of the Great Game. I hit 'The Cure,' then titled 'The Prophecy' if you remember... hahaha, what a piece of work I've been. Anyway. I beat him that night and I can say I held this title for eleven months. Time and time again they sent man after man after me... still The Mad King remained, the Great Game still to be played. Ah... Kingpin. I really wish I had a guy like you right now. Just a big, beefy, JoJo Rush type, yeah. The Game, and it's all about the game and how ya play it, as you'd likely remind in that cold, stern, bad motherfucker voice of yours. Haha...
He scoffs, placing the last photo down.
The Mad King: While a wild, entertaining thought... JoJo Rush is not my Diesel and I am not his Shawn Micheals. As unfortunate a statement as that is to make. I think we'd probably get along well enough, but, I dunno. Seems a little too Clay Byrd or... Brett Black for my palette.
A taste slaps in Flip's mouth a moment as he tries striking it away with his tongue.
GOOOOOOOOOOOONG!
The Mad King happily fires up to his feet almost jumping in place. Finally. Someone remembers. Someone knows. Someone never forgot. He rushes from the seated side of the desk at this glorious grandfather clock. A clock which, I must remind you, was not in this room until it gonged so heavily.
The Mad King: AEON, FINALLY! YE-HEH-HEEEEESSS!! YOU BEAUTIFUL WIZARD, LEMME SEE THAT SMILE, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD!!
King Flip opens the grandfather clock. In the distance, a soft Nurse Kinsley style chuckle can be heard in the distance. Flip fires around, pained, wincing, but at the ready. Nobody's there, still. The King worries the grandfather clock, why, it may also not be there.
King Flip turns around.
