Post by Deleted on Jan 14, 2023 2:09:55 GMT -5
St☠n _ Massacre 01.16.23
How do you start to explain the path of great? Who even wears the crown? When can you tell? What does it look like? How does it feel? Does it start down a dark dingy highway, or perhaps it transcends normalcy altogether? Stories start in many fashions. My foundation may even resemble yours... to a certain standard. I don't usually reminisce much... but this one, in fact, begins down a dark shoreline one foggy night in the high northwest... during a sandy beach snowstorm. The very thing that molded me into this. The Alpha in every OCW room. Better than Black.
Large icy sand mounds on a remote beach somewhere in the western Canadian landscape. Leaves and fishnets mix in each mound with the occasional bottle or sparce can. Animals move to avoid the weather already incoming and worsening. The sand mound closest to the water has an interesting addition, because of human fingers peeking barely out of the top. Blood trails trickle down from the finger holes. Puddles collect on the edge of the mounds. Just on the other side of the sand mounds is a hooded crazed lunatic pacing back and forth. Scruff covers his face. His nervous finger twitching is slightly less paranoid than his constant hair twisting. Skidding tires mark the arrival of a truck pulling up in a hurry. Our lunatic friend descends down to the running vehicle, making sure to verbally berate the driver upon entry. The truck speeds off with scenery coming and going quickly through the windows.
Stan _ 'Where the fuck were you?! I think I got them all!' . Thomas _ 'Had a little hold up but I was ON MEEEE WAY I WAS! I think you've lived up to the threshold! Wow! Are those mound fingers?? Nice touch! Did you get all of them?' . Stan _ 'Yes I did. A brand-new Standard! Let's get the hell out of here! All these dead guys in icy sand mounds give me the creeps!' . Thomas _ 'Later gators! I can't wait to get out of this shithol-'
A series of thuds hit the truck causing it to flip side to side several times all the way down an embankment before finding a final resting spot against a large rock. Gasoline pours out beneath the truck. Stan and Thomas manage to cut themselves free with their matching maple handled pocket-knives. What a Christmas gift those turned out to be. Stan was able to relocate his own dislocated shoulder to the proper Standard. Meanwhile, Thomas was busy crawling out of the car, perplexed as to what the pair hit that caused the accident. Then- it hit him- in the head. An audible explosion in the background leaves much to be explained.
Awakening to a very groggy vision of bars next to a metal tray of maggot stew- leading to a guard clanking a metal can against metal bars for morning wake-up call. Some sort of jailcell deep in the middle of the wilderness. Two Eskimo hillbillies with badges. Fast forward to what the badges affectionately named "talk time." After turning the fire hose on Stan and Thomas, they let them catch their breath, then immediately interrogate them for answers.
Badge One _ 'We know that posse was out looking for you two! So- where are they!? Cletus isn't answering his phone! Jimbob and Ray would never leave him by himself! Where arrrrrrre theeey?! HUH!?' . Stan _ 'I had no idea... it was our job to keep track of every toothless cunt your clan loses??!?' . Thomas _ 'SHHHHUT THE FU-'
Stan begins to hallucinate between hosings. Thomas just screams in pain. Stan imagines himself on a beach somewhere, instead of beating his ribs to shit, the water flows freely around his body. Suddenly he feels the pain of reality lift. He turns, walking into the direct path of the fire hose. Stan walks up the stream step by step, now both hoses are directed at him. Thomas watches in disbelief as his brother walks through the pain.
Badge Two _ 'Take 'emmmm ouutttt! WHAT'REUUUU WAITIN FERRRRR??' . Stan _ 'Disco.' . Badge One _ 'STOOPPPP! RIGHT THERE! I MEAN IT!'
Stan grabs one hose, turning it on the other. The fake Eskimo Police begin to scatter in an effort to escape. Stan looks at Thomas, both men know what must be done with a single glance exchange and nod. Thomas runs toward the fleeing men. He trips one, then supplexes another over his head. Stan turns the hose pressure up on the gauge. The skin starts to peel off the man in front of him who is pinned against the building. The man eventually gurgles then pops like a gross water balloon. Thomas stumbles over toward Stan, still in reverence of his brother's ability to block out the distraction and do what needed to be done.
Thomas _ 'Stan, that- that was incredible...' . Stan _ 'Yeah? Well, guess what isn't so incredible?' . Thomas _ 'What's that?' . Stan _ 'We're going to need a lot more sand...' . Thomas _ 'We've got plenty.' . Stan _ 'Super... what's that?!'
Rain pours from the clouds. They stare at a fresh pile of bodies shaking their heads. Massacres in front and behind. Audibly a running motor can be made out in the distance. It approaches the men consistently, peaking over a dip in the roadway. An old jeep wagon with the windows up. Lightening in the distance. Wicked rolling thunder for miles. They decide to leave before their carnage is discovered. Both having grown as men and as alphas.
Stand _ Quiver
"Have you heardddddd!!!!?? Steve Black is back! What should we do first?! Congratulate him on an outstanding career?! Hold up his hand in preemptive victory at Massacre?! Add him to the literal mounds of bodies you've already put out to pasture?! You know- I am quite privy to that last choice. When you buy icy sand in bulk and dump the bodies on a convenient hidden away northern shoreline, you can actually get away with it. Oh, not murder, finding a quiet place to collect yourself after a Steve Black interview. I may have actually flatlined! I nearly dozed off there several times, then I felt at the end like my organs just hattteeeedddddd himmmmmm! Between all the Disney movie references and Snickers bars I was afraid OCW might get sued! Rest assured- The Standard stepped up when they called and got you out of trouble- Black. See, we just can't afford excuses to play a role Monday Night. I need you at your peak... or whatever you call the roided blonde rage that is your existence. Bring every ounce of competition you have. I want Massacre's record-standard-breaking audience to observe the old guard dying as Monday gives birth to the new Standard. I'm not just here to gather pupils on my handsome jawline. It is my solemn oath and premiere duty to execute clearing the path for more than just change for change's sake!
Every wrestler who debuts in any place talks about how things are changing. BORRRIINNGG! Been there! Heard it! What is this, a dick and tit coffee table or a wrestling organization? OCW... my time is not 'here and now,' it's more than a manmade construct of measurement. My planet is using its gravitational pull and massive size to swallow your planet. Or I may spit! You may not see it coming or take it seriously enough until it is far too late... but it's still gospel. My prayers will be with Steve Black from Tuesday onward as he recovers from all he will soon go through. Beatings that could be avoided if you'd just... try Steve White for a bit? Black is played out, everybody wears it! Be different. Melo the fuck out. Steve White. Whitteeyyy! Steve Brown? Why does any color sound racial but still not as bad as Black? You better figure something out. While your amount of braincells is questionable, your desire to be the best is admirable. Totally wrong and delusional, but admirable. It's like watching one of those wishes John Cena grants for the Make A Wish Foundation. You could be next, budddd!!!
You like dick jokes, Steve? Real penis grabbers? Don't touch yourself while I'm standardizing! Hey... are those the napkins with lotion? What brand of jockstrap is that, is it Victoria's Secret? Standard catalog? Yeah right, but boy, you just keep those wishes coming! You want to teach someone math? That's your thing? What's one, two, three? It's not exactly a complicated count, is it, bleach blonde? Your chances are at zero, THAT'S RIGHT- no sum, just CHUM! Black is a standard of old. Freshness is overdue around Massacre. Fall in line. Let the career you wanted be a catalyst for how you handle this failure. Everyone loses. Get used to it. Especially if you keep fighting me. Don't give me that look! Ugh- you're not gonna ask me for an autograph too- are ya? That's enougggggghhhhh! Get down on your knees to ask me! Isn't that what you did with Feldman? Those Coreys were really something. Unlike you. My name is Stan, not Stan Dard you illiterate hillbilly. Your legs will quiver like a newborn babe when my wrath comes down to cleanse and standardize your filthy face. Like it or not- the moment will arrive. Uncaring of your pathetic quips. Just a skull and crossbones emblem left on your forehead as a token of a career lived and lost. Of the man that talked his way into retirement. No one promises to beat me. Not without me reaching down their scrawny throats and pulling their jaded tongues out. Not for harm- as an example to all others who may think twice about trying it. Black isn't who you are anymore, Steve, it's what you're going to see when you're laying there. Just trying to remember why you chose not to take the exit door when you had the chance. Prepare for peace. Prepare for War. Prepare to get beat like it's my undying chore.
I won't have your disobedience. No tolerance is allowed. Stand and deliver is something that throw back's usually say. Try throwing this back; stand and quiver is reality of what will happen to you in that place and on that day. Hot pockets have saved my life on more than one occasion, but they won't save Black from this darkness. The one that's burrowed into my soul since that day with Thomas. It shaped who we became. Protectors of all we are and love. Alpha males in all we do. Have you ever looked into someone's eyes as their lights fade? You see all the regrets at once in a final fleeting moment... then resolution... then it's over just as fast. I can't promise you that, but I can sure as hell pledge respect given will be reciprocated. Take your loss in stride onto the next town to pillage and plunder. Because here... there's a new Standard. You weren't living up so a replacement has to do the dirty work. Alas- worry not, you're not the first wrestler I've seen that likes it black. Remember Steve Blackman? Fuuuucking Ayyye! Whatever happened to that guy? No, nothing?? OHH. That's how you'll be remembered too, Steve, as an A! As in Aaaaalmost.
No You Can't. No You Can't. I am the Alpha, you are just some penis table named Steve Black."
How do you start to explain the path of great? Who even wears the crown? When can you tell? What does it look like? How does it feel? Does it start down a dark dingy highway, or perhaps it transcends normalcy altogether? Stories start in many fashions. My foundation may even resemble yours... to a certain standard. I don't usually reminisce much... but this one, in fact, begins down a dark shoreline one foggy night in the high northwest... during a sandy beach snowstorm. The very thing that molded me into this. The Alpha in every OCW room. Better than Black.
Large icy sand mounds on a remote beach somewhere in the western Canadian landscape. Leaves and fishnets mix in each mound with the occasional bottle or sparce can. Animals move to avoid the weather already incoming and worsening. The sand mound closest to the water has an interesting addition, because of human fingers peeking barely out of the top. Blood trails trickle down from the finger holes. Puddles collect on the edge of the mounds. Just on the other side of the sand mounds is a hooded crazed lunatic pacing back and forth. Scruff covers his face. His nervous finger twitching is slightly less paranoid than his constant hair twisting. Skidding tires mark the arrival of a truck pulling up in a hurry. Our lunatic friend descends down to the running vehicle, making sure to verbally berate the driver upon entry. The truck speeds off with scenery coming and going quickly through the windows.
Stan _ 'Where the fuck were you?! I think I got them all!' . Thomas _ 'Had a little hold up but I was ON MEEEE WAY I WAS! I think you've lived up to the threshold! Wow! Are those mound fingers?? Nice touch! Did you get all of them?' . Stan _ 'Yes I did. A brand-new Standard! Let's get the hell out of here! All these dead guys in icy sand mounds give me the creeps!' . Thomas _ 'Later gators! I can't wait to get out of this shithol-'
A series of thuds hit the truck causing it to flip side to side several times all the way down an embankment before finding a final resting spot against a large rock. Gasoline pours out beneath the truck. Stan and Thomas manage to cut themselves free with their matching maple handled pocket-knives. What a Christmas gift those turned out to be. Stan was able to relocate his own dislocated shoulder to the proper Standard. Meanwhile, Thomas was busy crawling out of the car, perplexed as to what the pair hit that caused the accident. Then- it hit him- in the head. An audible explosion in the background leaves much to be explained.
Awakening to a very groggy vision of bars next to a metal tray of maggot stew- leading to a guard clanking a metal can against metal bars for morning wake-up call. Some sort of jailcell deep in the middle of the wilderness. Two Eskimo hillbillies with badges. Fast forward to what the badges affectionately named "talk time." After turning the fire hose on Stan and Thomas, they let them catch their breath, then immediately interrogate them for answers.
Badge One _ 'We know that posse was out looking for you two! So- where are they!? Cletus isn't answering his phone! Jimbob and Ray would never leave him by himself! Where arrrrrrre theeey?! HUH!?' . Stan _ 'I had no idea... it was our job to keep track of every toothless cunt your clan loses??!?' . Thomas _ 'SHHHHUT THE FU-'
Stan begins to hallucinate between hosings. Thomas just screams in pain. Stan imagines himself on a beach somewhere, instead of beating his ribs to shit, the water flows freely around his body. Suddenly he feels the pain of reality lift. He turns, walking into the direct path of the fire hose. Stan walks up the stream step by step, now both hoses are directed at him. Thomas watches in disbelief as his brother walks through the pain.
Badge Two _ 'Take 'emmmm ouutttt! WHAT'REUUUU WAITIN FERRRRR??' . Stan _ 'Disco.' . Badge One _ 'STOOPPPP! RIGHT THERE! I MEAN IT!'
Stan grabs one hose, turning it on the other. The fake Eskimo Police begin to scatter in an effort to escape. Stan looks at Thomas, both men know what must be done with a single glance exchange and nod. Thomas runs toward the fleeing men. He trips one, then supplexes another over his head. Stan turns the hose pressure up on the gauge. The skin starts to peel off the man in front of him who is pinned against the building. The man eventually gurgles then pops like a gross water balloon. Thomas stumbles over toward Stan, still in reverence of his brother's ability to block out the distraction and do what needed to be done.
Thomas _ 'Stan, that- that was incredible...' . Stan _ 'Yeah? Well, guess what isn't so incredible?' . Thomas _ 'What's that?' . Stan _ 'We're going to need a lot more sand...' . Thomas _ 'We've got plenty.' . Stan _ 'Super... what's that?!'
Rain pours from the clouds. They stare at a fresh pile of bodies shaking their heads. Massacres in front and behind. Audibly a running motor can be made out in the distance. It approaches the men consistently, peaking over a dip in the roadway. An old jeep wagon with the windows up. Lightening in the distance. Wicked rolling thunder for miles. They decide to leave before their carnage is discovered. Both having grown as men and as alphas.
Stand _ Quiver
"Have you heardddddd!!!!?? Steve Black is back! What should we do first?! Congratulate him on an outstanding career?! Hold up his hand in preemptive victory at Massacre?! Add him to the literal mounds of bodies you've already put out to pasture?! You know- I am quite privy to that last choice. When you buy icy sand in bulk and dump the bodies on a convenient hidden away northern shoreline, you can actually get away with it. Oh, not murder, finding a quiet place to collect yourself after a Steve Black interview. I may have actually flatlined! I nearly dozed off there several times, then I felt at the end like my organs just hattteeeedddddd himmmmmm! Between all the Disney movie references and Snickers bars I was afraid OCW might get sued! Rest assured- The Standard stepped up when they called and got you out of trouble- Black. See, we just can't afford excuses to play a role Monday Night. I need you at your peak... or whatever you call the roided blonde rage that is your existence. Bring every ounce of competition you have. I want Massacre's record-standard-breaking audience to observe the old guard dying as Monday gives birth to the new Standard. I'm not just here to gather pupils on my handsome jawline. It is my solemn oath and premiere duty to execute clearing the path for more than just change for change's sake!
Every wrestler who debuts in any place talks about how things are changing. BORRRIINNGG! Been there! Heard it! What is this, a dick and tit coffee table or a wrestling organization? OCW... my time is not 'here and now,' it's more than a manmade construct of measurement. My planet is using its gravitational pull and massive size to swallow your planet. Or I may spit! You may not see it coming or take it seriously enough until it is far too late... but it's still gospel. My prayers will be with Steve Black from Tuesday onward as he recovers from all he will soon go through. Beatings that could be avoided if you'd just... try Steve White for a bit? Black is played out, everybody wears it! Be different. Melo the fuck out. Steve White. Whitteeyyy! Steve Brown? Why does any color sound racial but still not as bad as Black? You better figure something out. While your amount of braincells is questionable, your desire to be the best is admirable. Totally wrong and delusional, but admirable. It's like watching one of those wishes John Cena grants for the Make A Wish Foundation. You could be next, budddd!!!
You like dick jokes, Steve? Real penis grabbers? Don't touch yourself while I'm standardizing! Hey... are those the napkins with lotion? What brand of jockstrap is that, is it Victoria's Secret? Standard catalog? Yeah right, but boy, you just keep those wishes coming! You want to teach someone math? That's your thing? What's one, two, three? It's not exactly a complicated count, is it, bleach blonde? Your chances are at zero, THAT'S RIGHT- no sum, just CHUM! Black is a standard of old. Freshness is overdue around Massacre. Fall in line. Let the career you wanted be a catalyst for how you handle this failure. Everyone loses. Get used to it. Especially if you keep fighting me. Don't give me that look! Ugh- you're not gonna ask me for an autograph too- are ya? That's enougggggghhhhh! Get down on your knees to ask me! Isn't that what you did with Feldman? Those Coreys were really something. Unlike you. My name is Stan, not Stan Dard you illiterate hillbilly. Your legs will quiver like a newborn babe when my wrath comes down to cleanse and standardize your filthy face. Like it or not- the moment will arrive. Uncaring of your pathetic quips. Just a skull and crossbones emblem left on your forehead as a token of a career lived and lost. Of the man that talked his way into retirement. No one promises to beat me. Not without me reaching down their scrawny throats and pulling their jaded tongues out. Not for harm- as an example to all others who may think twice about trying it. Black isn't who you are anymore, Steve, it's what you're going to see when you're laying there. Just trying to remember why you chose not to take the exit door when you had the chance. Prepare for peace. Prepare for War. Prepare to get beat like it's my undying chore.
I won't have your disobedience. No tolerance is allowed. Stand and deliver is something that throw back's usually say. Try throwing this back; stand and quiver is reality of what will happen to you in that place and on that day. Hot pockets have saved my life on more than one occasion, but they won't save Black from this darkness. The one that's burrowed into my soul since that day with Thomas. It shaped who we became. Protectors of all we are and love. Alpha males in all we do. Have you ever looked into someone's eyes as their lights fade? You see all the regrets at once in a final fleeting moment... then resolution... then it's over just as fast. I can't promise you that, but I can sure as hell pledge respect given will be reciprocated. Take your loss in stride onto the next town to pillage and plunder. Because here... there's a new Standard. You weren't living up so a replacement has to do the dirty work. Alas- worry not, you're not the first wrestler I've seen that likes it black. Remember Steve Blackman? Fuuuucking Ayyye! Whatever happened to that guy? No, nothing?? OHH. That's how you'll be remembered too, Steve, as an A! As in Aaaaalmost.
No You Can't. No You Can't. I am the Alpha, you are just some penis table named Steve Black."