Post by cureforthesickness on May 15, 2007 8:34:37 GMT -5
WFWF.com exclusive interview
The buffering has ended and the opening video montage for WFWF.com video footage begins, showing random clips from various WFWF matches. These clips come to a quick stop as the footage blurs. Quickly popping up through the grainy net footage is a black leather chair, it’s back facing towards the camera. Nothing can be seen above the back of the tall leather chair, but a voice emanates from it.
Why.. What do I have to gain from this? I’m on the top of the world to start with. I’m a fucking messiah. But there’s a certain mystic to this match that intrigues me.. It makes me hungry. It makes me.. Interested.. I haven’t been interested in much of anything lately. You’ve got some sick fuck running around, fucking with people’s families.. You’ve got one guy holding the Tag Team titles, and defending them against one more person. TAG TEAM YOU FUCKING RETARDS!! TWO PEOPLE VERSUS TWO PEOPLE!! You’ve got a booker who couldn’t book his way out of a wet paper bag with a Dusty finish.. You’ve got a douche bag emo who complains and bitches when he loses matches, then he tapes gay videos in a beat up gym.. You’ve got a new breed of “wrestlers” who think the world is a place for zombie idols, “Flamez”, spiders, and whatever the fuck a C-Dog is.. But the man on top sickens me the most. What kind of guy brings his kid into this act? What kind of self sufficient individual would endanger his own offspring for his own professional good? To bring himself to championship gold, fame, & fortune? Who would really show his own personal life and turn himself into an open book for the sake of success..?
A quick spin of the chair reveals the face of Obo, heavily bandaged still from the wars of Forever Unscarred and sporting a bruise on his chin from the battle with Josh Dean. His hair is messy and his eyes look like they are deprived of sleep. His chest is bare, sporting a large red looking patch on both the left and right sides of his body, vague black marks running from the waist line to the arm pit, showing new tattoos for the ultraviolent anti-Christ. Baggy black pants hang loosely from his body, hanging just below the waist line and revealing the waist band of a pair of boxers. Over his shoulder is the WFWF championship, faint traces of blood staining the center plate.
That sick fuck is me. I’m just that crazy. I’m just that stupid. You see, I don’t give a fuck about anyone else. I don’t give a fuck about Justin Tyme, I don’t give a fuck about Master of Destruction, I don’t give a fuck about Johnny Michaels, and I sure as hell don’t give a fuck about CBT. You see CBT, your lackluster booking ways have left me deprived. I need drama. I need something to keep me interested. With Kyzer, I had all the drugs I could ever want and the fun of destroying Wayne’s personal life. With Reverend Shadow, I had a nemesis to plot destruction on, but now, I lay idol, the heavyweight championship draped over my shoulder. My buzz has worn off. I’m not interested. I need some drama. I’m not interested in meaningless tag matches. I talked to CBT about this and he just rambled about Detroit and machine guns. I don’t give a fuck about CBT. He’s a punching bag. Build a legacy through crooked booking and mind games on your own watch, cockmonkey, this is the time of Obo. This is circa 2007, circa the year of the Ultraviolent All-Star. CBT, when drama doesn’t immediately present itself, I make it. I find an opportunity and I pounce on it like a madman seeking his next kill.
Obo reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, now leaning backwards in the relaxing leather chair. A quick tap of the box sends two of the slim white sticks out of the top. He pulls one out quickly and sticks it into his mouth, quickly working a lighter out of the pack as well. A flick of the lighter sends a spark out, but no flame. A second flick and the same repeats. Once more, and fire comes out. The flame abruptly touches the tip of the cigarette, letting out a bit of smoke as it ignites. A few quick puffs are taken off the cancer stick before the tirade continues
For the most part, I’ve seen and done it all in WFWF now. One half of the only team to ever win the tag team titles twice, and no, the Revolution doesn’t count, because Manny C is a dick licker, and that’s a straight up shoot. I’ve been in some of the most violent wars in WFWF history. I’m a former International champion, back when the title actually meant shit and wasn’t just a prop for “storyline development”. I’m the fucking Heavyweight champion of the world. I beat the hell out of someone so bad they left the god damn federation. But I want more. I want more gold. I want more success. I want to be a legend. But the gold isn’t everything. I want to bring a certain prestige back to this federation that seems like it was lost long ago. I want to bring back a time when our TV show actually meant something and wasn’t just some whacky Italian gimmick. I want to bring back a time when our Pay Per Views weren’t named after magic tricks and me, when the shit actually made sense. Fuck catchy sub titles, I want matches to make sense. Book a feud. Find two guys that legitimately hate each other, put them in a ring, and let them fight. It’s not that damn hard. Hell, fucking Joe Kessan and Shane O’Shitface could figure it out. CBT. I want wrestling. If that means I have to destroy you, so be it. Fuck a Higher Authority, I’m the fucking police. CBT.. I’ve said a lot of shit in the past and I’ve said I’m gonna beat up a lot of people.. But I want you to listen to this.. I want you to read between the fucking lines. Put on your thinking cap and listen to what I’m saying. You suck. You absolutely fucking suck. You’re the worst owner I have ever seen, and I lived through Josh and Draven. Kill yourself while you still can, because as of right now, I’m looking to destroy the other half of the Higher Authority. Oh, and Gabe wants his booking sheets back..
A quick flash of the WFWF logo followed by trademarks and copywrite info flash on the screen before the window closes, taking you back to the WFWF.com main page.
The buffering has ended and the opening video montage for WFWF.com video footage begins, showing random clips from various WFWF matches. These clips come to a quick stop as the footage blurs. Quickly popping up through the grainy net footage is a black leather chair, it’s back facing towards the camera. Nothing can be seen above the back of the tall leather chair, but a voice emanates from it.
Why.. What do I have to gain from this? I’m on the top of the world to start with. I’m a fucking messiah. But there’s a certain mystic to this match that intrigues me.. It makes me hungry. It makes me.. Interested.. I haven’t been interested in much of anything lately. You’ve got some sick fuck running around, fucking with people’s families.. You’ve got one guy holding the Tag Team titles, and defending them against one more person. TAG TEAM YOU FUCKING RETARDS!! TWO PEOPLE VERSUS TWO PEOPLE!! You’ve got a booker who couldn’t book his way out of a wet paper bag with a Dusty finish.. You’ve got a douche bag emo who complains and bitches when he loses matches, then he tapes gay videos in a beat up gym.. You’ve got a new breed of “wrestlers” who think the world is a place for zombie idols, “Flamez”, spiders, and whatever the fuck a C-Dog is.. But the man on top sickens me the most. What kind of guy brings his kid into this act? What kind of self sufficient individual would endanger his own offspring for his own professional good? To bring himself to championship gold, fame, & fortune? Who would really show his own personal life and turn himself into an open book for the sake of success..?
A quick spin of the chair reveals the face of Obo, heavily bandaged still from the wars of Forever Unscarred and sporting a bruise on his chin from the battle with Josh Dean. His hair is messy and his eyes look like they are deprived of sleep. His chest is bare, sporting a large red looking patch on both the left and right sides of his body, vague black marks running from the waist line to the arm pit, showing new tattoos for the ultraviolent anti-Christ. Baggy black pants hang loosely from his body, hanging just below the waist line and revealing the waist band of a pair of boxers. Over his shoulder is the WFWF championship, faint traces of blood staining the center plate.
That sick fuck is me. I’m just that crazy. I’m just that stupid. You see, I don’t give a fuck about anyone else. I don’t give a fuck about Justin Tyme, I don’t give a fuck about Master of Destruction, I don’t give a fuck about Johnny Michaels, and I sure as hell don’t give a fuck about CBT. You see CBT, your lackluster booking ways have left me deprived. I need drama. I need something to keep me interested. With Kyzer, I had all the drugs I could ever want and the fun of destroying Wayne’s personal life. With Reverend Shadow, I had a nemesis to plot destruction on, but now, I lay idol, the heavyweight championship draped over my shoulder. My buzz has worn off. I’m not interested. I need some drama. I’m not interested in meaningless tag matches. I talked to CBT about this and he just rambled about Detroit and machine guns. I don’t give a fuck about CBT. He’s a punching bag. Build a legacy through crooked booking and mind games on your own watch, cockmonkey, this is the time of Obo. This is circa 2007, circa the year of the Ultraviolent All-Star. CBT, when drama doesn’t immediately present itself, I make it. I find an opportunity and I pounce on it like a madman seeking his next kill.
Obo reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, now leaning backwards in the relaxing leather chair. A quick tap of the box sends two of the slim white sticks out of the top. He pulls one out quickly and sticks it into his mouth, quickly working a lighter out of the pack as well. A flick of the lighter sends a spark out, but no flame. A second flick and the same repeats. Once more, and fire comes out. The flame abruptly touches the tip of the cigarette, letting out a bit of smoke as it ignites. A few quick puffs are taken off the cancer stick before the tirade continues
For the most part, I’ve seen and done it all in WFWF now. One half of the only team to ever win the tag team titles twice, and no, the Revolution doesn’t count, because Manny C is a dick licker, and that’s a straight up shoot. I’ve been in some of the most violent wars in WFWF history. I’m a former International champion, back when the title actually meant shit and wasn’t just a prop for “storyline development”. I’m the fucking Heavyweight champion of the world. I beat the hell out of someone so bad they left the god damn federation. But I want more. I want more gold. I want more success. I want to be a legend. But the gold isn’t everything. I want to bring a certain prestige back to this federation that seems like it was lost long ago. I want to bring back a time when our TV show actually meant something and wasn’t just some whacky Italian gimmick. I want to bring back a time when our Pay Per Views weren’t named after magic tricks and me, when the shit actually made sense. Fuck catchy sub titles, I want matches to make sense. Book a feud. Find two guys that legitimately hate each other, put them in a ring, and let them fight. It’s not that damn hard. Hell, fucking Joe Kessan and Shane O’Shitface could figure it out. CBT. I want wrestling. If that means I have to destroy you, so be it. Fuck a Higher Authority, I’m the fucking police. CBT.. I’ve said a lot of shit in the past and I’ve said I’m gonna beat up a lot of people.. But I want you to listen to this.. I want you to read between the fucking lines. Put on your thinking cap and listen to what I’m saying. You suck. You absolutely fucking suck. You’re the worst owner I have ever seen, and I lived through Josh and Draven. Kill yourself while you still can, because as of right now, I’m looking to destroy the other half of the Higher Authority. Oh, and Gabe wants his booking sheets back..
A quick flash of the WFWF logo followed by trademarks and copywrite info flash on the screen before the window closes, taking you back to the WFWF.com main page.
