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Post by Vinny Falcone on Mar 21, 2011 11:08:08 GMT -5
P.T. Merciless vs. Scott Reave vs. Grilled Cheese vs. Chris Hawk vs. Paul BlairYou 5 will RP here!
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Post by Grilled Cheese on Mar 22, 2011 17:18:03 GMT -5
(The GWA's newest member Grilled Cheese is sitting at a local park. He has with him his best friend Timmy "The Toaster" <which is a real toaster by the way>, As he sits with Timmy "The Toaster" some wrestling fans approach him.)
Fan #1: Aren't you Grilled Cheese from the GWA?
Grilled Cheese: Yes, yes I am.
Fan #2: Why are you called grilled cheese?
Grilled Cheese: Because meatloaf was taken!
Fan #2: (Laughing) Well OK than.
Grilled Cheese: Now say hi to Timmy you two?
Fan #1: Who's Timmy?
Grilled Cheese: My toaster.
Fan #2: Dude are you retarded?
Grilled Cheese: Huh?
Fan #1: You're walking around with a toaster, and you call it Timmy? Why?
Grilled Cheese: What would Charlie Sheen do?
Fan #1: What?
Grilled Cheese: At Spring Stampede, WINNING!
(Grilled Cheese gets up and like a 7yr old at recess he skips away.)
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Post by ptmerciless1 on Mar 28, 2011 23:13:45 GMT -5
The Planner
The man leaned on the table with both elbows and cradled his cup of Swiss tea in both hands, holding it in front of his unshaven face. Pete Medland's nerves were jittery these days, and it wasn't the six cups or so of tea he consumed each morning now that was to blame. Not entirely, anyway.
His cousin had mentioned on a few occasions that he wasn't exactly himself lately, that he'd become harder, darker, somehow. The man who was known around the world as P.T. Merciless didn't dispute the fact; he simply didn't agree that it was a problem. He'd been reckless in the past. Now, he was focused.
He was a man who'd met with many great successes, however brief they seemed to be. Looking back, his ventures time and again led to failure, friction, and national embarrassment.
UCW. CWE. CWA.
All were great accomplishments. Yet none ended well. Why?
The question had been burning in him for months now. His plans, however perfectly measured out and executed, always carried enough force to thrust him headlong into a brick wall. His whole life in Cleveland and Columbus was testament to that. For all his scamming, trying, manipulating and climbing, all he really had to show for his efforts today was a lot of enemies and a shitty reputation. Again, he wonders, what went wrong?
Every morning seems the same now. He gets up, throws on his plaid flannel shirt (he never realized how comfortable peasant clothing could be), runs a brush through his hair, scratches his balls, and heads downtown in his new home of Boston, where he visits the local franchise of his restaurant chain, Pete's Grille and Pizza. This had become his habit whenever he's home. This is where he was sitting right now.
"Uuhh..." He groaned the groan of the worldweary as he stretched his arms out and used the back of his chair to crack his back. He'd been sleeping sporadically for weeks. Well, for months. Ever since Belle, his wife, had comitted suicide in a Columbus jail cell.
His romance with the journalist Wendy Taylor seemed to have evaporated. After two months of a wonderful relationship---one based on not just sex and paganistic excess like his one with Belle, but actual conversation, humor, understanding and mutual respect---Wendy had stopped seeing him. Her reasons were unclear, but P.T. judged it had a lot to do with his alcoholism, his depression, and the few snippets he'd finally let her in on about his diabolical past. The framing of Coco Savage (or the attempted framing---again, a failure) when he was trying to take control of the CWE. Things like that. He hadn't been stupid enough to tell her about his habit of hiring hitmen and ordering executions, of course. But the framing was enough, anyway. Wendy was gone.
"Are you all right today, Mr. Merciless?" The waitress held a tray in her hand and placed a clean ashtray in front of him. He owned this restaurant, and he'd kept the smoking section cordoned off after purchasing the place from the new owner. The city of Boston said you couldn't smoke. P.T. said, fuck that.
"I'm all right, Esmerelda," he said, always somewhat charmed by this girl. She was a helluva waitress, and he found it cute that someone as young as twenty-five would be named Esmerelda. Usually, that was a granny name, and even then, a rare one.
"Hangin' in there, dollface, hangin' in there," P.T. said. He smiled tiredly and it wasn't lost on him how he couldn't be a happier man. He was, after all, a millionaire, famous (or infamous), and had no problem getting laid even when he hadn't showered in three days. Esmerelda had already taken him around the world herself.
"You need to cheer up, honey," she said in a bit of a sultry voice, and P.T. smiled as she scuttled off to wait on the real customers. P.T. ran a hand over his face and started thumbing through the mail he'd brought here with him this morning. Thumbing through his mail had become something he'd started doing here each day at Pete's Grille.
"Bill, bill, lawsuit, bill..." Same old horseshit. Then, a note popped up. It was in Esmerelda's writing, which was distinctive. She'd obviously made no attempt to alter it, either.
MEET WITH MENACE IN ROXBURY. 7 PM.
P.T. sat back and his heart jumped a bit. Not at receiving a message from his new business associate, Sexton "Menace" Ritter, but at the fact that said message had been written by his own waitress in his own restaurant. Was Menace an idiot? No, he wasn't, but maybe his balls were a little too large. P.T.'s head shot up and he regarded Esmerelda as she waited the tables not far off from his little private corner overlooking Boston Harbor. When she saw him, she lifted her skirt so only he could see the soft flesh of her ass. The anarchy symbol there was unmistakable, done in a very unique style. It was the symbol of the organization called MENACE.
P.T. shook his head and raised his eyebrows as Esmerelda winked at him and strutted away, her long legs and high heels making him tingle a bit as an aftershock. Menace had delivered his message and made his point to P.T. He had people all over, and he was one crafty man. P.T.'s new business relationship was going to pay off, big time. He was sure Menace intended to drive that home as well. He did. P.T. could see it all now. GWA. UWA. Maybe even the return of CWA. The achievement, finally, of his wrestling empire, built on the backs of the unwitting and non-visioned. It almost gave him a hard-on.
P.T. smiled now, and a little of the old light seemed to wash over him. The old confidence was coming back.
"Hey, sweetheart," he called over to Esmerelda as she bent over a table not far away to wipe it down, "How 'bout a little ginny-gin-gin? I've had enough caffeine to keep a sperm whale awake."
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Post by ptmerciless1 on Mar 30, 2011 20:29:07 GMT -5
Giftwrapped
P.T. knew the place in Roxbury where Menace wanted to meet, irrespective of Esmerelda telling him---which she did, after they'd had sexual intercourse twice back at his lush Boston apartment in Newbury. Roxbury was Boston's most notoriously seedy neighborhood, like Bedford-Stuyvesant was to New York City. The spot where P.T. Merciless would meet with his new business associate (and his henchmen, no doubt) was familiar to most wrestlers who'd ever spent any respectable amount of time in the Northeastern states. It was a place wrestlers would gather and meet to settle scores and differences---or scores OF differences---outside the limiting walls of an arena or gym. A Fight Club for pro grapplers, in other words.
P.T. had been there a few times himself, back in his slightly younger, pre-millionaire playboy days. A feud that just wouldn't die was often carried to "The Spot," as his ring brethren would call it. If the blood between the parties involved was particularly bad, the promotor himself would even suggest utilizing "The Spot" to get it over and done with, even at the risk of losing a wrestler or three. But the showdowns that took place there needed to have at least two other wrestlers present, as the code dictated. It was a code all honored, except two men who competed in the Midwest Region back in 'ninety-six who'd decided that harsh enough disrespect had been exchanged that firing weapons were required to conclude their particular saga. Those men went to "The Spot" alone. They also died alone.
Those fabled days of "The Spot" were now footnotes in the pages of wrestling history, but the place was still occasionally used for its old purposes. Tonight was perhaps the first time it would be used to conduct a business deal. Or perhaps not. As P.T. Merciless and his cousin and right arm Trip Master exited their limousine and slowly approached the Spot through back alleys and over uneven sidewalks, they both concluded that it mattered little.
"He didn't say what this was about?" Trip Master scratched the back of his neck continuously, an irritating habit the man had whenever he was nervous enough. P.T. gave a surreptitious eyeroll at the sight of it.
"No, he didn't, and I didn't ask. I figure he wants to talk pay," Merciless said.
"Well, I wish I hadn't come, to be honest," Trip said lamentably. "Maybe he changed his mind and decided we were better off as corpses after all."
P.T. opened his sport jacket and flashed a pistol at Trip without taking his eyes off the dimness of the streets ahead. "I thought of that." Trip scratched some more.
Menace and Decimation were already waiting at The Spot when Medland and Redgrave approached. Along with them were a few more men, whom P.T. recognized from their previous meeting and whom Trip Master had already known for months. Merciless's own slight nervousness increased a bit when the masked leader offered introductions this time. In a situation such as this, one party revealing anything about themselves usually meant they harbored no intentions of allowing the other party to leave in an upright position. P.T. steeled himself for the worst.
"Merciless," Menace said, affably enough. "Glad you found your way here." He offered a gloved hand, which P.T. reluctantly took.
"Everyone knows this place," Merciless said, knowing that Menace knew that already. Oh, the headgames you played when feeling a new ally out.
"Right," Menace said, smirking beneath his face cowl. There was nothing about his mood that seemed like he had illegitimate intentions, P.T. noted, and even Trip Master had visibly relaxed. So, P.T. kept an eye open but smiled back at the man.
"So what's the deal? What do you have for me? Or what do you need FROM me?" he asked.
"Aha!" Menace said, waving a triumphant finger in the air. "I've brought you a present, my friend. Or rather, several." He turned and headed for a dumpster, and his lieutenants seemed to be getting ready for action. 'Here we go,' P.T thought to himself. He believed he knew just what kind of 'present' he was about to get: One with a lead ribbon. Much to his sheer surprise, though, instead of ordering Decimation and his other goons to open fire on the cousins as he scurried out of range, the dark-haired man flipped a nearby dumpster lid open and waved P.T. over to it. Menace seemed to ignore Trip Master. After all his cousin had stolen from the Menace gang, Merciless imagined his latest business partner would never be a fan of the man.
"All right, e-fucking-nough." P.T. opened his sport jacket and displayed his weapon to all who could see in the darkness of this godforsaken corner of Roxbury. "I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. If you want my carcass in that dumpster, motherfucker, you're gonna have to work for it." All eyes were upon him, and Trip Master seemed on the verge of cardiac arrest, hanting and panting six feet behind P.T.
To Merciless's surprise---and unbelievable relief---Menace slammed the side of a fist against the dumpster, and on cue, several muffled voices could be heard grunting and groaning from within. P.T. looked at Menace confusedly, and the gang boss only held out a welcoming, come-see-for-yourself palm in response. Decimation, the big six-five two-hundred eighty pounder, threw back his head and laughed uproariously in his Aussie accent.
P.T. glanced over at Trip Master, who was seemingly bent on biting his thumbnail down to the quick. He looked back at Menace, and after a reassuring nod, started slowly toward the dumpster. Decimation and the other gang men gave him a wide berth, realizing his understandable apprehension here.
As P.T. came upon the big metal stinkpit, Menace slid a conveniently-nearby empty milk crate over with his foot so his new employer could get up there and get a look-see. It was one of those tall contraptions. P.T. hopped up after one more wary glance at Menace, and looked down inside. What he saw shocked him like a jolt from a wall socket.
Inside, were five men. Five wrestlers, actually. Five former UCW wrestlers. The ones that got away, as they say. All five grapplers had been ones that had no-showed, no-sold, and no-no'd their way right out of their contracts when wrestling under P.T. He recognized some like "The Japanese Playboy" Mitsuu Yu, who'd walked out on a multimillion-dollar contract after receiving half his pay up front, then avoided the legal repercussions by fleeing back to his home country of Japan. Also, he saw another who wasted his time and money, Chris Falcon. Heralded as the next big thing, the man turned out to be the next big no-shower, costing P.T. a few million in advertising costs alone.
He held no love for these guys, but couldn't understand why the hell Menace had dragged them here, beaten and gagged as they were. Surely he didn't expect that Merciless wanted these guys dead, did he? If so, P.T. intended to end their partnership immediately. He'd had enough trouble with murder investigations before.
"What the hell are they here for?" he asked Menace as he stepped down from the plastic crate. "I hope you don't fancy me a killer, Menace."
"I just thought The Spot was a good place to bring these guys to meet with you," Menace explained. After all, that's what this infamous little cul de sac is here for, isn't it? Figured if you had any scores to settle with these deadbeats, now's a good time for it."
P.T. was already tiring of hearing the men groan in protest inside the dumpster, but Menace ended that by jerking a thumb behind him. Instantly, three of his goons hustled over and climbed up into the dumpster. Also instantly, P.T. could hear the bound men being seriously roughed up. The echoing slams of heads being cracked against the dumpster made his stomach tighten a little. P.T. Merciless was used to violence in the real world outside of their bubble of hell called wrestling, and he certainly wasn't renowned for his compassion, but the senseless beating of basically helpless men didn't exactly give him a hard-on.
"Enough." P.T. looked at Menace evenly, and glanced at Decimation to make sure he'd gotten the message as well. "That's enough."
Menace nodded curtly, and clapped his hands. Almost a second later, the noise from within the dumpster ceased, save the cries and moans of pain from the victims, of course. Trip Master had come over to the dumpster himself, finally, and he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest tightly like a bitch in a cold wind.
"All right. You wanted to let me know you're loyal and you're not bullshit," P.T.said, now smiling even though he didn't much feel like it. "You also wanted to let me know you're impeccably resourceful, just like when you planted one of your organization members in my restaurant."
"How good a fuck was she, by the way?" Menace asked casually.
"Not bad at all," P.T. replied, just as fluidly. "So mission accomplished, on both counts. I'm confident and comfortable working with you gentlemen, and I can see you've got eyes and ears everywhere. I might have to check my own asshole for an implanted camera before I hop in the jacuzzi tonight."
Menace smiled under his mask, and the big man from Melbourne, Decimation, also wore a grin.
"Good!" the gang leader beamed. "All right, men," he said, turning to his troops, "Operation Trust has been a smashing success." He looked back at P.T. "So what's our first assignment, partner?"
P.T. rubbed his chin, and realized in passing he needed a fuckin' shave badly. "My cousin and I have some big matches coming up in the GWA," he said thoughfully. "Title matches. Shit titles, but they're Step One. We're trying to get to the throne room of Russel Lee's castle, if you know what I'm saying."
Menace nodded slowly, understanding and probably already hatching something. "I'll let you know what I come up with."
With that, P.T. and Trip Master turned to go, but Merciless turned back around. "Oh, yeah..." Menace and his men regarded him again. "Those wrestlers in that big shitcan ARE gonna make it home, aren't they?"
Menace held up a palm as if taking an oath. "My word on it."
P.T. nodded, and he and Trip headed down the cracked sidewalk.
Fifteen minutes later, after securing the area, the members of Menace were exiting the cul de sac known as The Spot in the opposite direction from where P.T. and Trip had left. Decimation stood there a bit longer, hesitating. The others had all become just silouettes on the other end of the alley, but Menace himself came over and stood by Decimation, looking at him.
"We knocked 'em all out cold, Hector," he said. "We're all masked, too. I know what you're thinking, but the answer is No." Menace said as the big man gazed in thought at the metal bin.
"It's too risky, Sexton. These guys heard a lot. Deadbeat and Flamethrower run their fucking mouths too damn much." Decimation kept looking at the dumpster.
"So fucking what?" Menace said. "Like they know what Menace is or give a damn. The only guy they'll even speak to the cops about---if they do---is Merciless. He's the only guy they even know. They'll blame HIM for paying us to beat them up. And he's so fucking rich he'll buy three judges and get left alone about it." Menace could see his friend and cohort was having a hard time with this. "Hector...Let's GO."
Decimation just slowly moved his head from side to side and brought a semi-automatic pistol with silencer out of his long black trench coat's inner pocket. Not that most people bothered using a silencer in this part of Boston.
Menace saw that his friend meant to carry through with his intention, and knew the man well enough by now that even being his leader wouldn't stop him. He started backing away from him.
"Whatever you intend to do, you do it when I'm BLOCKS away, you got it?"
Decimation seemed not to notice Menace, other than the faintest trace of a nod in the affirmative.
Menace walked swiftly---strode, really---down the alley, and was gone.
Decimation climbed back into the dumpster, landing on his feet in there. The thing had been emptied the previous morning by whatever garbage service unfortunate enough to operate in this end of town, otherwise the gang wouldn't have used it to "stash" the five UCW wrestlers.
He gave one final glance at all the men, lying there unconscious, bleeding from their foreheads, cheeks, elbows. They were all just crumpled shells now, anyway, he reasoned. You didn't nurse an old dog with three broken legs back to health. You shot the fucking thing.
"Nothin' personal, blokes," he said as he aimed at the men.
Mistu Yuu actually opened one eye and looked at him. He's the one Decimation shot first.
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Post by paulblair on Mar 31, 2011 21:53:28 GMT -5
Scene opens to a pitch black dark room. We then hear a man talking to the camera but he stays in the shadows of the dark room and we can not see him.
Man: This Sunday at the Spring Stampede PPV live from the Canton Civic Center in downtown Canton,Ohio home of the Pro Football Hall of Fame or for those that are over seas the National Football League or NFL for short.
I will compete in a ladder match for the recently reinstated GWA Hardcore Championship. I am thrilled but apprehensive all at the same time. It's been a very long time since I have competed in a ladder match or a hardcore match.
You see when I first got into the wrestling business I would compete in every type of crazy match type I could. And I made quite a reputation as an extreme wrestler. Until the night of the accident.
It was late one night and I was driving home from the bar as we were all celebrating the huge show that we had just put on. It went over so well that the promotion I was working for had just landed a tv deal with fox sports.
It was a great time to be in that promotion. Everything seemed to going in the right direction until I left the bar after drinking a few drinks and got behind the wheel of my car. I probably should have never done it. But shit happens.
Well I end up crashing my car and ended up with a broken back, a broken arm, a broken leg, and had to have total reconstructive surgery on my face. It took me 3 and 1/2 years to fully recover from all the injures.
When I was able to get back in the ring and wrestle for the very first time in years. I swore to myself that I would never do anything to risk my career or my body again. So that's when I came up with my new way thinking and acting.
Because I am the ......
The man pauses then steps out of the shadows to reveal that he is in fact"Super Stud" Paul Blair.
Paul Blair: Thats right ladies the "Super Stud" Paul Blair is going to be in Canton,Ohio this Sunday live on ppv. I am going to show my opponents in this ladder match just why I was extreme before extreme was cool. I am going to prove to the world that even a handsome,good looking S.O.B. like myself can still kick some ass but look good doing it. This Sunday the Super Stud becomes the Extreme Icon one more time.
I promised myself that this would never happen again but if I want to win the GWA Hardcore title then so be it. I feel sorry for the other four GWA superstars in this match. You see boys you four are not on the same level of extreme like I am.
Everyone says Mick Foley and Jeff Hardy are extreme or to hardcore. Well I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that they have never ever been on the same playing field as me. They things I have done make these two look like little Catholic school girls.
So if you want to see hardcore, extreme action like you have never seen then please tune in this Sunday to the ppv and you will get your moneys worth. I promise you that. So to all my fans that have waiting to see the old Paul Blair this Sunday you get your wish.
He walks back into the shadows and is gone.
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Post by Chris Hawk on Apr 1, 2011 15:07:06 GMT -5
(We enter the Office Lounge which is totally packed! Patrons are drinking, smoking, eating, dancing. Sitting by the door is Chris Hawk who is working. While standing there a young, small blond with blue eyes who stands no more than 5'1" 100lbs with a sweet C rack speaks to him.)
Girl - Hello, you're Chris Hawk correct?
Chris Hawk - Yes I am, who are you and how do you know me?
Girl - My name is Alexis, and I know you from the CWF.
Chris Hawk - CWF? Really? The California Wrestling Federation.
Alexis - Yes. I lived in California for years but moved here when I got a job with a local newspaper.
Chris Hawk - Good shit Alexis. Good to run into someone else from California.
Alexis - I know the feeling.
Chris Hawk - It might be a bit early for this, but what are you up to tonight?
Alexis - Well I know the club doesn't close till 3am, when do you get off work?
Chris Hawk - 3am
Alexis - And you call that tonight?
Chris Hawk - It's still early for me doll.
Alexis - It's a date. Until then I'll just enjoy the rest of the evening here.
Chris Hawk - Works for me.
(Alexis walks away from Chris and joins some of her friends and starts dancing while Chris goes back to work. After 6hrs it's finally 3am and The Office Lounge in now closed. As agreed Alexis waited for Chris. Chris takes her by the arm and leads her to the basement where the gym is.)
Alexis - Is this where you train for your wrestling?
Chris Hawk - Yes. I can also train in other things as well.
Alexis - Like?
(Chris grabs Alexis and bends her over the weight bench, lifts her dress and pulls her thong to the side. He then plunges himself inside her.)
Alexis - OH YES!!
Chris Hawk - You like that don't you?
Alexis - YES YES! HARDER!!
Chris Hawk - Yeah baby, scream for Daddy!
Alexis - OH DADDY!!
(Chris pounds her from behind for several minutes...)
Alexis - FILL ME UP!!
Chris Hawk - NO! You're gonna eat it!
(Chris pulls out and turns Alexis around and pastes her face with his vanilla tears.)
Chris Hawk - Now this is what I call a great first date.
Alexis - OH YES!
Chris Hawk - Damn it's almost 5am. Wanna do get some breakfast.
Alexis - I'd love too.
(The two leave the club and go eat.)
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