Post by Nathan Lucas on Jun 20, 2012 15:38:49 GMT -6
“My name is Nathan Lucas.”
“I told you that last week, but you've probably already forgotten me. It's OK, I don't blame you, I'm an easy guy to skip over in this industry. I don't have a nickname to hide behind, or a gimmick to cover up a lack of personality or charisma. I don't have a dozen endorsement deals, or a trust fund set up by my father to ensure that I never have to worry a day in my life. I don't have a legacy to protect, and I don't have laurels to rest on.”
“I'm just another face in the crowd.”
“Save your fucking sympathy. I don't need a pat on the shoulder and reassurance that someday I'll have all of those things, because I don't need any of it. Do you want to know why? Because for everything that Marquee, or Frost, or Firebomb has that I don't, I have something better... and I have something that they'll never be able to buy with money or reputation.”
“I have an unbreakable determination to win. No, I take that back. I have an unbreakable determination to dominate; to destroy anyone that had the audacity to line up against me in the first place. I have never given up, I have never been submitted, I have never even thought the word 'quit'. You're a fucking moron if you think you'll be the one to change that.”
“I have a raw strength and aggression that is unmatched, and unmanageable. Do you know the old saying 'we can't beat him, we can only hope to contain him'? I can't be contained. I don't care who you are, or what you've done to prepare. I'm a freight train, and you're tied to the tracks.”
“Most importantly, I have an insatiable hunger. I don't want to win the Roy Lee Rumble, I NEED to. I don't dream about being crowned the World Champion, I obsess about never sleeping a full night again if I don't stake my claim to it. Most men wrestle to better their lives, I wrestle because without it, I'll never have a life worth living.”
“My name is Nathan Lucas, and my blood doesn't flow without this industry.”
“My name is Nathan Lucas, and after I toss 9 other superstars out on their asses, I will be your king.”
“My name is Nathan Lucas.”
“Do me a favor; try and remember it this time.”
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CALEB: Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Aaaaand time! Take a break gentlemen, you've earned it...
He doesn't need to tell me twice. I immediately collapse to my knees and place my head in my hands, sucking wind through gritted teeth. I look up, through teary filled eyes, and see Mike and Sean in similar predicaments. Mike is face down on his stomach, his back rising and falling like a mountain in an earthquake, deep wheezes bellowing from his lips. Sean sits against the wall, eyes closed and muscles shaking. Caleb walks a slow semi circle around us, studying our levels of exhaustion and our recovery times. My recovery time is going to be a long, long time from now...
CALEB: Deep breaths, Nathan. Two minutes and we go again.
NATHAN: I... c... aaan't...
CALEB: What was that?
NATHAN: I... I can't. Not in two... two minutes...
CALEB: If your body won't recover, force it to recover. That's the point of a cardio workout, Nathan. We go in two. Well, 1:40.
I hang my head again, watching a tear drop to the canvas and stain what was once a white surface. I force myself to stand, hooking both hands above my head to stretch the stitch in my side. Mike and Sean are already on their feet and both already seem to be breathing relatively normally. I don't get it... I'm the one fighting in battle royals every month, and their the ones who can run circles around me despite sitting on their couches all day.
CALEB: Mike, get him some water. Move your ass, Mike!
I watch Mike lumber across the floor to the cooler, grabbing a bottle of water from inside and jogging back over to me. He tosses it in my direction and I pluck it out of midair, using my free palm to unscrew the bottle with practiced ease. I empty the bottle in 15 seconds, dropping it with a hollow thud to the floor. I immediately begin to feel better, my breath returning and my core temperature dropping. Luckily, I still have a good amount of time to recover as well.
CALEB: Twenty seconds and we're going again.
Holy f**k. Time flies when you're dying.
CALEB: Same drill as before, Nathan in the middle of the ring with Mike and Sean on the sides. I'm going to call a name, you two are going to emulate that person until Nathan eliminates you. If you eliminate Nathan, wait for him to get back in the ring and you go again until he eliminates you. On your feet!
I straighten up slowly, watching Mike and Sean back up as Caleb stands in the turnbuckle with the whistle. He eyes his stopwatch, giving me the last few seconds that I'm owed, and then with another shrill blast of the whistle he sends us back to hell.
WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!
CALEB: ROBBIE MILANO!
I turn to Sean as he approaches me, my mind racing to remember the scouting report on the son of a mobster. He's got decent submissions, but the only one I have to avoid is the Sicilian Necktie, so don't let him get a body lock for any reason. Other than that, a pretty generic style. Not strong enough to hurt me, not fast enough to burn me. I'll be fine.
SEAN: Of course, I've got to try and beat you as the shitty guys...
I crack a smile and lunge forward, grabbing one of Sean's legs and trying to whip him to the ground. Sean sprawls, trying to catch my neck in a head lock but I keep my chin tight to my chest and don't let him sink the choke in. I circle his body, pressing him flat the entire time and controlling his arm so that I don't get caught in the Necktie. I grab his neck in the crook of my arm and begin to squeeze, feeling the life drain out of him. As soon as I think he's weak enough, I climb to my feet and drag him with me. I move him against the ropes, still locked in the guillotine, and hurl him over.
CALEB: T-BOMB!
This is tailor made for Mike, a big, strong, MMA style fighter with a great submission game. I turn around to face him, but he's already got me by the waist. He takes me for a ride and slams me down with a suplex. I roll out of the way before he gets the elbow drop that he wanted, and as he charges forward I bring him down with a swinging double leg. I look for the same guillotine I caught Sean in, but Mike is ready and instantly finds wrist control and grabs a kimura. I roll my weight over and use my free arm to wrench my trapped hand free. Mike tries to modify into an arm bar, but I get out of the way and climb back to my feet. He does the same, but a quick dropkick from me has him against the ropes, and a quick leg sweep has him over them.
CALEB: Good work, Nathan! Let's give him a little more of a challenge, boys! A champion does not rise without putting in the work! A champion does not step from the shadows without putting in the work! We are putting in the work, and the results will follow. You ARE the Roy Lee Rumble winner! You ARE the WPW World Champion! Show us that!
He's right, and I know it. I slam a hammer fist into the canvas and shout in rage, jumping back to my feet and getting ready to turn it up a notch. I wait for Sean, or Mike, or both of them to rush in again, and I wait to put them down. I am the champion, and I will put in the work to prove it.
FADE TO BLACK
CALEB: Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Aaaaand time! Take a break gentlemen, you've earned it...
He doesn't need to tell me twice. I immediately collapse to my knees and place my head in my hands, sucking wind through gritted teeth. I look up, through teary filled eyes, and see Mike and Sean in similar predicaments. Mike is face down on his stomach, his back rising and falling like a mountain in an earthquake, deep wheezes bellowing from his lips. Sean sits against the wall, eyes closed and muscles shaking. Caleb walks a slow semi circle around us, studying our levels of exhaustion and our recovery times. My recovery time is going to be a long, long time from now...
CALEB: Deep breaths, Nathan. Two minutes and we go again.
NATHAN: I... c... aaan't...
CALEB: What was that?
NATHAN: I... I can't. Not in two... two minutes...
CALEB: If your body won't recover, force it to recover. That's the point of a cardio workout, Nathan. We go in two. Well, 1:40.
I hang my head again, watching a tear drop to the canvas and stain what was once a white surface. I force myself to stand, hooking both hands above my head to stretch the stitch in my side. Mike and Sean are already on their feet and both already seem to be breathing relatively normally. I don't get it... I'm the one fighting in battle royals every month, and their the ones who can run circles around me despite sitting on their couches all day.
CALEB: Mike, get him some water. Move your ass, Mike!
I watch Mike lumber across the floor to the cooler, grabbing a bottle of water from inside and jogging back over to me. He tosses it in my direction and I pluck it out of midair, using my free palm to unscrew the bottle with practiced ease. I empty the bottle in 15 seconds, dropping it with a hollow thud to the floor. I immediately begin to feel better, my breath returning and my core temperature dropping. Luckily, I still have a good amount of time to recover as well.
CALEB: Twenty seconds and we're going again.
Holy f**k. Time flies when you're dying.
CALEB: Same drill as before, Nathan in the middle of the ring with Mike and Sean on the sides. I'm going to call a name, you two are going to emulate that person until Nathan eliminates you. If you eliminate Nathan, wait for him to get back in the ring and you go again until he eliminates you. On your feet!
I straighten up slowly, watching Mike and Sean back up as Caleb stands in the turnbuckle with the whistle. He eyes his stopwatch, giving me the last few seconds that I'm owed, and then with another shrill blast of the whistle he sends us back to hell.
WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!
CALEB: ROBBIE MILANO!
I turn to Sean as he approaches me, my mind racing to remember the scouting report on the son of a mobster. He's got decent submissions, but the only one I have to avoid is the Sicilian Necktie, so don't let him get a body lock for any reason. Other than that, a pretty generic style. Not strong enough to hurt me, not fast enough to burn me. I'll be fine.
SEAN: Of course, I've got to try and beat you as the shitty guys...
I crack a smile and lunge forward, grabbing one of Sean's legs and trying to whip him to the ground. Sean sprawls, trying to catch my neck in a head lock but I keep my chin tight to my chest and don't let him sink the choke in. I circle his body, pressing him flat the entire time and controlling his arm so that I don't get caught in the Necktie. I grab his neck in the crook of my arm and begin to squeeze, feeling the life drain out of him. As soon as I think he's weak enough, I climb to my feet and drag him with me. I move him against the ropes, still locked in the guillotine, and hurl him over.
CALEB: T-BOMB!
This is tailor made for Mike, a big, strong, MMA style fighter with a great submission game. I turn around to face him, but he's already got me by the waist. He takes me for a ride and slams me down with a suplex. I roll out of the way before he gets the elbow drop that he wanted, and as he charges forward I bring him down with a swinging double leg. I look for the same guillotine I caught Sean in, but Mike is ready and instantly finds wrist control and grabs a kimura. I roll my weight over and use my free arm to wrench my trapped hand free. Mike tries to modify into an arm bar, but I get out of the way and climb back to my feet. He does the same, but a quick dropkick from me has him against the ropes, and a quick leg sweep has him over them.
CALEB: Good work, Nathan! Let's give him a little more of a challenge, boys! A champion does not rise without putting in the work! A champion does not step from the shadows without putting in the work! We are putting in the work, and the results will follow. You ARE the Roy Lee Rumble winner! You ARE the WPW World Champion! Show us that!
He's right, and I know it. I slam a hammer fist into the canvas and shout in rage, jumping back to my feet and getting ready to turn it up a notch. I wait for Sean, or Mike, or both of them to rush in again, and I wait to put them down. I am the champion, and I will put in the work to prove it.
FADE TO BLACK
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"Do you people know what the most annoying part of this whole thing is? It's not the two a day training sessions, and it's not muscling down six chicken breasts a day to build the muscle required to pin down Firebomb's ego for a three count... it's sitting through eight consecutive promos, waiting for my name to come up in each one, only to hear the same generic insults and the same tired ass comparisons. With that said, I'm going to go ahead and knock some of this shit out of the park before I even address the people in this match with a functioning cerebellum."
"T-Bomb, I don't give a f**k if you don't consider me a 'real fighter'. I don't give a f**k if you hung up your wrestling boots a decade ago and went strictly MMA from that point forward... see, this isn't MMA. Your win-loss record and your bootleg championships from rinky dink regional promotions don't mean shit here. All that matters is if you know how to escape a guillotine choke, or if you know how to create an airway when you're locked in my triangle. I'm a fighter, T-Bomb, no matter what you say. The fact that I've won 90% of my matches prove that, as does my consecutive victories in the WPW Fed Cup's. Talk all the shit you want, when it's all said and done I'll be the champion, and you'll be the guy on Jerry Springers "I fucked my sisters while my dad watched" episode."
"Next up on the moron march, Robbie Milano. I'll give you all two guesses what Firebombs most remedial descendant wanted to talk about... yes, I realize that I just claimed that T-Bomb is the smart one... No, he didn't want to talk about his experiences with bestiality. Yes, he did want to talk about me as an MMA fighter. What part of this are you people not getting? I'm a wrestler, just like all of you. That's why I'm here... in a wrestling company... wrestling... in a wrestling match... for a wrestling title. Have I hammered that point home? Stop identifying me as a Ryan Bader rip off just because I had one match and got my shoulder snapped, you inbred wastes of blood and bile. The next person to compare me to someone just because we've both taken a few jiu jitsu classes is getting an Anderson Silva-esque front kick to the face."
"Oh, hello there Marquee."
"Now, this is crazy, the person that talks the most actually said the least. Sure, he went on and on about me, to borderline obsessive lengths I might add... but when you sift through the bull shit, the padding, and the shameless self promotion, he only has two main points."
"First: He once beat a guy named Ulie Red... which is the dumbest fucking name I've ever heard of, and it shows that new mothers should be given a little more time to let the drugs wear off before they are asked to fill out a birth certificate. Anyways, Ulie apparently was a MMA success and pro wrestling failure, and that's supposed to be my cautionary tale."
"Here's some food for thought, Marquee... if he was such a failure, and he couldn't hack it in pro wrestling, why are you bragging about beating him like it's some kind of accomplishment? That's like a soccer player bragging about having a better bicycle kick than Lebron... who gives a f**k? You caught a fish out of water, Marquee, that doesn't mean you're ready for the Deadliest Catch."
"Also, where do you even get the idea he and I are in the same boat? I have 27 wins inside the ring, which is more than... well, you. I've fought in the XWF, PWE, WGWF, MW... I've won titles, I've broken records, and I've killed legends without even breaking a sweat. Am I supposed to be intimidated because you beat a 170 pound nothing that didn't know the difference between a hammer lock and a toe drag?"
"You're not the top dog, Marquee. You can go ahead and put that faggoty baby to bed right now, because if you were you would have won the Fed Cup in Los Angeles. You would have gotten Silvermans invitation to this match. You'd be the betting favorite to win this entire fucking thing. Unfortunately, all three of those distinctions are on my resume, and you're just the whiny little child that didn't get his way and decided to make up facts to try and tarnish the image of someone that he can't top legitimately."
"Forsee whatever you want to forsee, Marquee. Don't take it personally that no one takes you seriously, though. After all, with all of the facts you got wrong about me, it's become quite obvious that a man who can't even decipher the past is going to have a little trouble predicting the future."
"Start planning for an MMA fighter, please. Start practicing how to stuff a double leg takedown, or how to hip escape when you're opponent is in a full mount and raining down hammer fists. It'll make it all the easier to tip you over the rope with a simple dropkick, or... duh, duh, DUH!.... the finger poke of doom? You did get one detail right, though. I WAS trained by James Raven. You've heard of him, right? The Legend? The Icon? The Prodigy? What can I say, we can't all run around with a stable of mouth breathing teen agers that stole their stable name from a hat company..."
"Finally, Frost... the hot shot new comer that the experts are unanimously predicting to finish 2nd. Welcome to WPW, homie. Sorry you have to start off this new chapter in your career by losing to li'l ol' me. I have to say, I'm disappointed as shit, though. After all, you're the only one here who's seen me fight before. You're the one that was supposed to be my witness, and tell these clowns what was up. Unfortunately, you've fallen into the same trap as the rest of them... spouting lies and ignoring context in order to pull the wool over everyone elses eyes, and hope that they forget to call you on being full of shit."
"See, I have plenty of experience. 30 matches may not be record breaking, but it's enough to put most of these HWO rejects to shame. 27 wins isn't too shabby either; and if you want to look at the six times I've been double or triple booked, and won every match, I don't think you have a leg to stand on questioning my endurance. What about when I successfully defended my TV title in 7 consecutive weeks? You were there for that right? How about when I beat Jason Mudd in the center of the ring, despite fighting with a broken collarbone and fractured wrist? That's the guy you were saying beat you, right? Sure, he beat me too, but again... broken bones? It's a fairly legit excuse, oh, and let's not forget that your little "LTV" stable had jumped me backstage five minutes beforehand. I lost, big deal, it hasn't happened since. It won't happen at the Rumble, and it won't happen again."
"Put my skills to the test, Frost, I dare you. Let's put your aging body to the test against my youth, chiseled by the God's themselves. Let's put your ring awareness up against my raw athleticism, and we'll see who wins."
"Oh, and even YOU went on and on about my 'MMA career', and the success I found in the cage. f**k OFF! I HAD ONE PROFESSIONAL FIGHT! You just earned yourself an extra flying knee to the grill. Brush your teeth with something that tastes good, Frost, they'll be sitting in the back of your throat the rest of the night."
"Game over, boys. Thanks for playing."
[/color][/center]"Do you people know what the most annoying part of this whole thing is? It's not the two a day training sessions, and it's not muscling down six chicken breasts a day to build the muscle required to pin down Firebomb's ego for a three count... it's sitting through eight consecutive promos, waiting for my name to come up in each one, only to hear the same generic insults and the same tired ass comparisons. With that said, I'm going to go ahead and knock some of this shit out of the park before I even address the people in this match with a functioning cerebellum."
"T-Bomb, I don't give a f**k if you don't consider me a 'real fighter'. I don't give a f**k if you hung up your wrestling boots a decade ago and went strictly MMA from that point forward... see, this isn't MMA. Your win-loss record and your bootleg championships from rinky dink regional promotions don't mean shit here. All that matters is if you know how to escape a guillotine choke, or if you know how to create an airway when you're locked in my triangle. I'm a fighter, T-Bomb, no matter what you say. The fact that I've won 90% of my matches prove that, as does my consecutive victories in the WPW Fed Cup's. Talk all the shit you want, when it's all said and done I'll be the champion, and you'll be the guy on Jerry Springers "I fucked my sisters while my dad watched" episode."
"Next up on the moron march, Robbie Milano. I'll give you all two guesses what Firebombs most remedial descendant wanted to talk about... yes, I realize that I just claimed that T-Bomb is the smart one... No, he didn't want to talk about his experiences with bestiality. Yes, he did want to talk about me as an MMA fighter. What part of this are you people not getting? I'm a wrestler, just like all of you. That's why I'm here... in a wrestling company... wrestling... in a wrestling match... for a wrestling title. Have I hammered that point home? Stop identifying me as a Ryan Bader rip off just because I had one match and got my shoulder snapped, you inbred wastes of blood and bile. The next person to compare me to someone just because we've both taken a few jiu jitsu classes is getting an Anderson Silva-esque front kick to the face."
"Oh, hello there Marquee."
"Now, this is crazy, the person that talks the most actually said the least. Sure, he went on and on about me, to borderline obsessive lengths I might add... but when you sift through the bull shit, the padding, and the shameless self promotion, he only has two main points."
"First: He once beat a guy named Ulie Red... which is the dumbest fucking name I've ever heard of, and it shows that new mothers should be given a little more time to let the drugs wear off before they are asked to fill out a birth certificate. Anyways, Ulie apparently was a MMA success and pro wrestling failure, and that's supposed to be my cautionary tale."
"Here's some food for thought, Marquee... if he was such a failure, and he couldn't hack it in pro wrestling, why are you bragging about beating him like it's some kind of accomplishment? That's like a soccer player bragging about having a better bicycle kick than Lebron... who gives a f**k? You caught a fish out of water, Marquee, that doesn't mean you're ready for the Deadliest Catch."
"Also, where do you even get the idea he and I are in the same boat? I have 27 wins inside the ring, which is more than... well, you. I've fought in the XWF, PWE, WGWF, MW... I've won titles, I've broken records, and I've killed legends without even breaking a sweat. Am I supposed to be intimidated because you beat a 170 pound nothing that didn't know the difference between a hammer lock and a toe drag?"
"You're not the top dog, Marquee. You can go ahead and put that faggoty baby to bed right now, because if you were you would have won the Fed Cup in Los Angeles. You would have gotten Silvermans invitation to this match. You'd be the betting favorite to win this entire fucking thing. Unfortunately, all three of those distinctions are on my resume, and you're just the whiny little child that didn't get his way and decided to make up facts to try and tarnish the image of someone that he can't top legitimately."
"Forsee whatever you want to forsee, Marquee. Don't take it personally that no one takes you seriously, though. After all, with all of the facts you got wrong about me, it's become quite obvious that a man who can't even decipher the past is going to have a little trouble predicting the future."
"Start planning for an MMA fighter, please. Start practicing how to stuff a double leg takedown, or how to hip escape when you're opponent is in a full mount and raining down hammer fists. It'll make it all the easier to tip you over the rope with a simple dropkick, or... duh, duh, DUH!.... the finger poke of doom? You did get one detail right, though. I WAS trained by James Raven. You've heard of him, right? The Legend? The Icon? The Prodigy? What can I say, we can't all run around with a stable of mouth breathing teen agers that stole their stable name from a hat company..."
"Finally, Frost... the hot shot new comer that the experts are unanimously predicting to finish 2nd. Welcome to WPW, homie. Sorry you have to start off this new chapter in your career by losing to li'l ol' me. I have to say, I'm disappointed as shit, though. After all, you're the only one here who's seen me fight before. You're the one that was supposed to be my witness, and tell these clowns what was up. Unfortunately, you've fallen into the same trap as the rest of them... spouting lies and ignoring context in order to pull the wool over everyone elses eyes, and hope that they forget to call you on being full of shit."
"See, I have plenty of experience. 30 matches may not be record breaking, but it's enough to put most of these HWO rejects to shame. 27 wins isn't too shabby either; and if you want to look at the six times I've been double or triple booked, and won every match, I don't think you have a leg to stand on questioning my endurance. What about when I successfully defended my TV title in 7 consecutive weeks? You were there for that right? How about when I beat Jason Mudd in the center of the ring, despite fighting with a broken collarbone and fractured wrist? That's the guy you were saying beat you, right? Sure, he beat me too, but again... broken bones? It's a fairly legit excuse, oh, and let's not forget that your little "LTV" stable had jumped me backstage five minutes beforehand. I lost, big deal, it hasn't happened since. It won't happen at the Rumble, and it won't happen again."
"Put my skills to the test, Frost, I dare you. Let's put your aging body to the test against my youth, chiseled by the God's themselves. Let's put your ring awareness up against my raw athleticism, and we'll see who wins."
"Oh, and even YOU went on and on about my 'MMA career', and the success I found in the cage. f**k OFF! I HAD ONE PROFESSIONAL FIGHT! You just earned yourself an extra flying knee to the grill. Brush your teeth with something that tastes good, Frost, they'll be sitting in the back of your throat the rest of the night."
"Game over, boys. Thanks for playing."
