Post by BonnieBlue on Jan 8, 2020 12:58:19 GMT -5
??: [/font]Don’t do it, baby.
Eryk Van Warren. Well… here’s where a "Holy shit!" would suffice. Known to some circles as X-Calibur, some as The Redeemer, and others as that Hall of Fame son of a bitch who has beaten a lot of legendary names, this twenty-plus-year veteran just laid there in bed with his magnificent African Queen, Avalon. Known to some circles as “The Ice Cold Bitch”, some as “The Goddess of Gangsta”, and others as that scary ass bitch who married X-Calibur, both she and her husband laid amongst a set of cute sheets and pillow cases with unicorns shitting out rainbow colored poop emojis.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You know I don’t have a choice, Av.
AVALON: You always got a fuckin’ choice.
ERYK VAN WARREN: True. I guess… well, I guess that I simply choose to do this, then. Heh.
AVALON: Come on, now. You anmd I both know they gonna try n' discredit you from the START. You don’t need to walk into that bullshit with a pedigree like yours. You know what I’m sayin’, baby?”
ERYK VAN WARREN: Yeah. But, so what? Let ‘em. I know what I’ve accomplished in my career. I don’t give a fuck if anybody else wants to trash it or attempt to invalidate it. What’s done is fucking done. These scars and blemishes didn’t create themselves. Besides, when I get in the ring with them and they get their teeth smashed in and skulls caved in? They’re gonna look pretty goddamn stupid for saying it, now won’t they?
She smiled beautifully with those luscious lips and desirable brown eyes of hers. Without saying a word, she kissed her husband. A few seconds later, Avalon rested her chin on his bare chest, toying with his nipple with the tip of her snow-white acrylic nail. At the same time, he played with her smooth, amethyst-highlighted hair.
AVALON: Yeah. They will, won’t they?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Yup.
She winked.
AVALON: You fuckin’ wise, ain’t cha?
Licking her lips for a half-second, she then bit his nipple playfully. He let out a gasp before a laugh escaped him -- tsk’ing her for the unabashed naughtiness.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You say it like it’s a bad thing.
AVALON: Haha. Nah. Just sayin’.
He lost himself in thought for a few moments. Hesitating, he finally spoke his mind.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Seriously, though. You’re okay with this, right?
She sighed and rose up to her knees. Her magnificent breasts exposed themselves to Eryk and the camera watching as she climbed on top of her husband. Comfortable in her own skin, Avalon shrugged.
AVALON: Baby, you know I’m good with it. You forget who you talkin’ to? Where’d me meet? Uhhh… help me out here… in a wrestling ring? The fuck you thinkin’, boy?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Haha, point taken. Shit. Relax.
Avalon reached under the sheets for something, biting her bottom lip. Eryk’s eyes went wide for a moment before narrowing with an accompanying smile.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Hey now…
AVALON: I think it’s a great idea. You gonna fuckin’ win the Royal Rumble, baby.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Well, yeah. That’s the plan. I'm not making some triumphant return to the ring after a long absence not to be... um, triumphant?
Her long ice-tipped eyelashes swooshed to an intimate close. Swiveling her hips for a second, Avalon exhaled powerfully.
AVALON: Every one of them pussy ass bitches are gettin' theyselves over the top rope.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Every… one. Whether it’s a Road Dawg.
AVALON: Mm.
ERYK VAN WARREN: A Zombie.
AVALON: Mmmm.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Or a jorts and arm band wearing goof named John.
AVALON: Ohhhh… don’t stop.
ERYK VAN WARREN: As soon as I enter that ring… they’re gonna fall like dominos. One at a time..
AVALON: Fuuuck…
ERYK VAN WARREN: Two at a time...
AVALON: Fuuuuuuck… oh GOD…
ERYK VAN WARREN: Shit, maybe even three at a t-
There was a light knock on the door. Avalon stopped swirling on top of her husband in an instant and covered up. Eryk just lied back under the sheets and shook his head with a look on his face that could only be described as ‘anticipated disenchantment’.
??: Mommy!?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Every. Fucking. Time.
AVALON: Yes, baby! Hold on for Mama!!
The mood changed drastically as Eryk just stared at the ceiling.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You’re too loud, babe. Every time.
AVALON: Shut the fuck up, X. You love it.
??: Mommmmmmmiiiiieeee!!
ERYK VAN WARREN: Cadence, honey… Mommy’s coming.
Avalon grabbed underneath her husband’s chin and made him look up at her.
AVALON: [Whispering] Well, almost…
Before Eryk could respond she playfully licked Eryk’s forehead.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Cadence is always doing this shit.
AVALON: She’s THREE. What do you expect!?
He sat up, wiping the saliva from his forehead, palming the rest of his shaved head while scratching the scruff in his salt-and-peppered beard.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Fuck it. I’m gonna go for a walk.
AVALON: You mean you’re gonna go for a smoke. Uh-huh.
Without saying anything, Eryk stepped out of bed and slipped on a pair of black and neon green Tapout shorts, a gray beater tank top, and a pair of white Chucks with no socks. Somehow, walking the streets of Brooklyn at night always felt better being barefoot inside a flat pair of Converses.
It’s been four years since I’ve set foot inside a wrestling ring. Four long years. Some things have changed. Some things have not.
For instance, a new President has been elected for the United States of America. And as the Commander in Chief holds office during his first term, like always, most of the country is as divided as ever about it.
How about social media? Though many uses it may have, our court houses have been supplanted by Twitter and the legal burden of proof seems to fall upon Frankenpimp31 instead of an educated council. Then again, this may go beyond four years. Nevertheless, it seems to have become more prominent within that timeframe. Or is it just my imagination?
Then we have our youth. Kids saying “YEET” to each other on the Xbox while playing Fortnite. Ugh, I won’t even go into THAT one. Fucking disgrace.
And as you just saw, I have a family now. Ice Cold Bitch is my wife and my little Princess Cadence is my whole fucking world. Heh, imagine that. Me, a goddamn family man.
And yet, through all this transformation, societal and personal, one thing remains the same.
The world of professional wrestling has marched onwards.
In some cases… it’s even moved upwards. In other cases? Yeah, not so much.
SHOOT Project? Closed. EWA? Dead and buried. But APW? Alpha Pro Wrestling? You’re looking at the premier league of professional wrestling. The finest collection of specimens that have ever been assembled under one sweltering roof of talent and unconstrained ambition.
And… you know what? I want to be a part of that.
More importantly? I want… nay, NEED… to be the BEST part about that.
And thusly we come to the reason why I’ve decided to lace up my boots once again and entered myself into the Royal Rumble. Thanks to Alpha Pro, by the way, for extending the invitation and allowing me time to mull it over.
And since the mulling is over, it’s time to toss some mullets.
Great news for me. Bad news for EVERYONE else.
But don’t think for one second that I’m gonna sit here and run down the entire roster like everyone always does as predictably as the sun sets in the west and rises in the east. Whether it’s a Rumble, a tournament, or a Colossal Caged Clusterfuck, it’s just… monotonous. And pointless. And… combine every synonym out there for the word “boring” and you’ll get what I’m trying to say here.
So, yeah. I’ve earned the right to cast judgment on the approach competitors take in glorified shit storms like this. Take twenty-five plus years of dominating every corner of this Earth and combine it with the fact that I’ve actually WON said Rumbles, AND said Tournaments, AND said Caged Clusterfucks? Yeah. I know what the fuck I’m talking about here. I’m not invested in hyperbole, folks. Never have been. Never will be. So, boys and girls, gender-defying and self-identifying, treat it as gospel when I say that that I literally… physically… and mentally… will fucking own you if you think twice about stepping up to me. Whether you want to call them Royal Rumbles, Redemption Rumbles, or [Insert Cool-Sounding Name That Represents The Company Here], the end result is always the same. The mat will be stained red with the blood and soaked with the sweat of the fallen, my hand will be raised to the enormous skies above, and my name will be announced as the winner.
And then?
Whoa there now. We'll get to that in a minute. Pinky swear.
Make no mistake about it: I’m not just in this thing to have a quick five-minute pop from the crowd. I’m not here to have my “moment” and soak in the nostalgia from the capacity crowd at the Pit in ole ABQ and then shuffle my way back into a self-imposed retirement with a little here-you-go-thanks-for-the-special-appearance-cash-money in hand. Nah. I’m actually – SPOILER ALERT - IN. IT. to motherfuckin’ WIN. IT. So, when you hear my music? Every one of you better be ready for the biggest test of your FUCKING lives. Because, by the time I roll under those ropes and join the fray, if I see Zion Simmons smashing up Lex Collins in the corner? You can count on me running up behind them both and throwing them the fuck out of my ring like a couple of inert paperweights. After all, distractions make the easiest of decisions on who to go after. First lesson’s free, folks.
After that? I’m gonna scan the field. But, nah, I’m not gonna waste my time with the embarrassing D-Squad section of the roster like Jobber Dave, Ultimate Destroyer, and Lazer Blazer. Nah. No offense but, not interested in an overkill bonus here. They’ll all get theirs from a solid-type like Voshon Jackson anyway. Speaking of which, I really like that dude. And his tag team partner Giovanni Salbrini, for that matter. Both are hosses and exhibit a no-nonsense characteristic about them. So I’m not gonna lie and pretend and no-sell the fact that, out of the two of them, I’d much rather be staring my way across the ring at a “Ghost” than a “Big Nasty” by the time the dust settles in this thing. I mean, it’s not exactly a fucking quantum mechanics paradox that one needs to unravel in order to figure out which member of the Pee-Oh-Pee would have the tougher time trying to pick my two-hundred and thirty-eight pound ass out of the ring.
Nothing like showing a hot shot talent their own ass to close out a Rumble. Haha.
But hey, shit could happen. Right? Those boys could get got in the first couple of minutes by an unassuming, vocally challenged bard named Flop, or an outrageous psychopath like Arthur Pleasant. Hell, one of those guys could make it to the very end. Who knows. Or maybe I’m face-to-face with the Raging Dead: a fellow veteran of the same age who, like me, has championships and accolades scurrying out of his asshole like sex gerbils in a thunderstorm. Or better yet, an actual Grizzly Bear. Like we’re in the spiritual successor to fucking Semi-Pro or something.
If I had to choose who I could be alone with at the end, though? It’d probably be with my wife. Who knows, maybe Ice Cold Bitch has pulled the wool over ALL of our eyes and signed up without me knowing and has plans to get her hands on a Steven Osbourne or Ashley Derringer. Doubtful given we never agreed upon a babysitter, but crazier things have happened when it comes to Rumble surprises.
Right... Masuda Jubei-san?
(Eek... too soon?)
But a close second would have to be… Zombie McMorris. The North American Champion. No, scratch that. Alex Scott, the Junior Heavyweight Champion. Damn, I can’t make up my mind, but staring down the figurative barrel of a current reigning Champion of APW would be a nice moment for sure.
NO… wait… I got it… Jaice Wilds! Yeah! Or Mr. Greek Yogurt Himself, Diakos! John McCarty! Fucking… uh… fucking TROLL!?
Doesn’t matter. That wind you just felt was my hand whooshing off whatever blueprints you have for winning this match right off the fucking table. And that’s not me dismissing any of you out there. Not… really, anyway. At the end of the day, I do believe you’re all talented. I DO believe each and every one of you ARE capable. You’re ALL very good wrestlers.
It’s just… you’re not “AS”, you know?
That’s just science.
That’s just mathematical certainty.
That’s just… fucking… reality… and I don’t need to @ everyone down some obligatory list for you to see it. Best part of it all, though? On the walk of shame that 22… 33… 56… 162… 2,020 others are going to take that COUNTLESS others have taken before you? You’re going to look up at that… AlphaTron? Are we calling it the AlphaTron here? Right. You’re going to look up at that AlphaTron and see a certain banner say this:
WINNER OF THE ROYAL RUMBLE MATCH… ERYK VAN WARREN!
And then? Add insult to glory? You get the chance… the HONOR of a LIFETIME to catch a glimpse of the pre-made graphic that just got the okay from the front office to be shown on the screen live in front of millions before you hit the showers:
Told ya we'd get to "that".
That's right. I WILL go on to compete for the biggest prize in professional wrestling. This time? In a new setting. Against a new opponent, in front of a new audience.For the Alpha-Pro Wrestling… WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP. Because at the end of the day, that's what this is all about, isn't it? It's not about tossing people out of the ring... not in the grand scheme of things, anyway. It's about who can outlast who en route to becoming number one, or in this case, number two contender to the top prize sitting on that lonely fucking mountain. And if you don’t believe me? That’s fine. Everybody is a skeptic until they they're put unconscious by the truth.
And that truth? To find it, all you need to do is a little bit of research on a couple of the SEVEN World Heavyweight Championships I have hanging at home for my wife and daughter to see.Or don’t... and be staggered with awe in the face of my greatness when the bell finally sounds.
Either way is fine with me. Because at Monday Night Metal?
The era of Eryk Van Warren, King of the Motherfuckin' Alphas, rises to conquer all.
Eryk Van Warren. Well… here’s where a "Holy shit!" would suffice. Known to some circles as X-Calibur, some as The Redeemer, and others as that Hall of Fame son of a bitch who has beaten a lot of legendary names, this twenty-plus-year veteran just laid there in bed with his magnificent African Queen, Avalon. Known to some circles as “The Ice Cold Bitch”, some as “The Goddess of Gangsta”, and others as that scary ass bitch who married X-Calibur, both she and her husband laid amongst a set of cute sheets and pillow cases with unicorns shitting out rainbow colored poop emojis.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You know I don’t have a choice, Av.
AVALON: You always got a fuckin’ choice.
ERYK VAN WARREN: True. I guess… well, I guess that I simply choose to do this, then. Heh.
AVALON: Come on, now. You anmd I both know they gonna try n' discredit you from the START. You don’t need to walk into that bullshit with a pedigree like yours. You know what I’m sayin’, baby?”
ERYK VAN WARREN: Yeah. But, so what? Let ‘em. I know what I’ve accomplished in my career. I don’t give a fuck if anybody else wants to trash it or attempt to invalidate it. What’s done is fucking done. These scars and blemishes didn’t create themselves. Besides, when I get in the ring with them and they get their teeth smashed in and skulls caved in? They’re gonna look pretty goddamn stupid for saying it, now won’t they?
She smiled beautifully with those luscious lips and desirable brown eyes of hers. Without saying a word, she kissed her husband. A few seconds later, Avalon rested her chin on his bare chest, toying with his nipple with the tip of her snow-white acrylic nail. At the same time, he played with her smooth, amethyst-highlighted hair.
AVALON: Yeah. They will, won’t they?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Yup.
She winked.
AVALON: You fuckin’ wise, ain’t cha?
Licking her lips for a half-second, she then bit his nipple playfully. He let out a gasp before a laugh escaped him -- tsk’ing her for the unabashed naughtiness.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You say it like it’s a bad thing.
AVALON: Haha. Nah. Just sayin’.
He lost himself in thought for a few moments. Hesitating, he finally spoke his mind.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Seriously, though. You’re okay with this, right?
She sighed and rose up to her knees. Her magnificent breasts exposed themselves to Eryk and the camera watching as she climbed on top of her husband. Comfortable in her own skin, Avalon shrugged.
AVALON: Baby, you know I’m good with it. You forget who you talkin’ to? Where’d me meet? Uhhh… help me out here… in a wrestling ring? The fuck you thinkin’, boy?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Haha, point taken. Shit. Relax.
Avalon reached under the sheets for something, biting her bottom lip. Eryk’s eyes went wide for a moment before narrowing with an accompanying smile.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Hey now…
AVALON: I think it’s a great idea. You gonna fuckin’ win the Royal Rumble, baby.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Well, yeah. That’s the plan. I'm not making some triumphant return to the ring after a long absence not to be... um, triumphant?
Her long ice-tipped eyelashes swooshed to an intimate close. Swiveling her hips for a second, Avalon exhaled powerfully.
AVALON: Every one of them pussy ass bitches are gettin' theyselves over the top rope.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Every… one. Whether it’s a Road Dawg.
AVALON: Mm.
ERYK VAN WARREN: A Zombie.
AVALON: Mmmm.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Or a jorts and arm band wearing goof named John.
AVALON: Ohhhh… don’t stop.
ERYK VAN WARREN: As soon as I enter that ring… they’re gonna fall like dominos. One at a time..
AVALON: Fuuuck…
ERYK VAN WARREN: Two at a time...
AVALON: Fuuuuuuck… oh GOD…
ERYK VAN WARREN: Shit, maybe even three at a t-
There was a light knock on the door. Avalon stopped swirling on top of her husband in an instant and covered up. Eryk just lied back under the sheets and shook his head with a look on his face that could only be described as ‘anticipated disenchantment’.
??: Mommy!?
ERYK VAN WARREN: Every. Fucking. Time.
AVALON: Yes, baby! Hold on for Mama!!
The mood changed drastically as Eryk just stared at the ceiling.
ERYK VAN WARREN: You’re too loud, babe. Every time.
AVALON: Shut the fuck up, X. You love it.
??: Mommmmmmmiiiiieeee!!
ERYK VAN WARREN: Cadence, honey… Mommy’s coming.
Avalon grabbed underneath her husband’s chin and made him look up at her.
AVALON: [Whispering] Well, almost…
Before Eryk could respond she playfully licked Eryk’s forehead.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Cadence is always doing this shit.
AVALON: She’s THREE. What do you expect!?
He sat up, wiping the saliva from his forehead, palming the rest of his shaved head while scratching the scruff in his salt-and-peppered beard.
ERYK VAN WARREN: Fuck it. I’m gonna go for a walk.
AVALON: You mean you’re gonna go for a smoke. Uh-huh.
Without saying anything, Eryk stepped out of bed and slipped on a pair of black and neon green Tapout shorts, a gray beater tank top, and a pair of white Chucks with no socks. Somehow, walking the streets of Brooklyn at night always felt better being barefoot inside a flat pair of Converses.
It’s been four years since I’ve set foot inside a wrestling ring. Four long years. Some things have changed. Some things have not.
For instance, a new President has been elected for the United States of America. And as the Commander in Chief holds office during his first term, like always, most of the country is as divided as ever about it.
How about social media? Though many uses it may have, our court houses have been supplanted by Twitter and the legal burden of proof seems to fall upon Frankenpimp31 instead of an educated council. Then again, this may go beyond four years. Nevertheless, it seems to have become more prominent within that timeframe. Or is it just my imagination?
Then we have our youth. Kids saying “YEET” to each other on the Xbox while playing Fortnite. Ugh, I won’t even go into THAT one. Fucking disgrace.
And as you just saw, I have a family now. Ice Cold Bitch is my wife and my little Princess Cadence is my whole fucking world. Heh, imagine that. Me, a goddamn family man.
And yet, through all this transformation, societal and personal, one thing remains the same.
The world of professional wrestling has marched onwards.
In some cases… it’s even moved upwards. In other cases? Yeah, not so much.
SHOOT Project? Closed. EWA? Dead and buried. But APW? Alpha Pro Wrestling? You’re looking at the premier league of professional wrestling. The finest collection of specimens that have ever been assembled under one sweltering roof of talent and unconstrained ambition.
And… you know what? I want to be a part of that.
More importantly? I want… nay, NEED… to be the BEST part about that.
And thusly we come to the reason why I’ve decided to lace up my boots once again and entered myself into the Royal Rumble. Thanks to Alpha Pro, by the way, for extending the invitation and allowing me time to mull it over.
And since the mulling is over, it’s time to toss some mullets.
Great news for me. Bad news for EVERYONE else.
But don’t think for one second that I’m gonna sit here and run down the entire roster like everyone always does as predictably as the sun sets in the west and rises in the east. Whether it’s a Rumble, a tournament, or a Colossal Caged Clusterfuck, it’s just… monotonous. And pointless. And… combine every synonym out there for the word “boring” and you’ll get what I’m trying to say here.
So, yeah. I’ve earned the right to cast judgment on the approach competitors take in glorified shit storms like this. Take twenty-five plus years of dominating every corner of this Earth and combine it with the fact that I’ve actually WON said Rumbles, AND said Tournaments, AND said Caged Clusterfucks? Yeah. I know what the fuck I’m talking about here. I’m not invested in hyperbole, folks. Never have been. Never will be. So, boys and girls, gender-defying and self-identifying, treat it as gospel when I say that that I literally… physically… and mentally… will fucking own you if you think twice about stepping up to me. Whether you want to call them Royal Rumbles, Redemption Rumbles, or [Insert Cool-Sounding Name That Represents The Company Here], the end result is always the same. The mat will be stained red with the blood and soaked with the sweat of the fallen, my hand will be raised to the enormous skies above, and my name will be announced as the winner.
And then?
Whoa there now. We'll get to that in a minute. Pinky swear.
Make no mistake about it: I’m not just in this thing to have a quick five-minute pop from the crowd. I’m not here to have my “moment” and soak in the nostalgia from the capacity crowd at the Pit in ole ABQ and then shuffle my way back into a self-imposed retirement with a little here-you-go-thanks-for-the-special-appearance-cash-money in hand. Nah. I’m actually – SPOILER ALERT - IN. IT. to motherfuckin’ WIN. IT. So, when you hear my music? Every one of you better be ready for the biggest test of your FUCKING lives. Because, by the time I roll under those ropes and join the fray, if I see Zion Simmons smashing up Lex Collins in the corner? You can count on me running up behind them both and throwing them the fuck out of my ring like a couple of inert paperweights. After all, distractions make the easiest of decisions on who to go after. First lesson’s free, folks.
After that? I’m gonna scan the field. But, nah, I’m not gonna waste my time with the embarrassing D-Squad section of the roster like Jobber Dave, Ultimate Destroyer, and Lazer Blazer. Nah. No offense but, not interested in an overkill bonus here. They’ll all get theirs from a solid-type like Voshon Jackson anyway. Speaking of which, I really like that dude. And his tag team partner Giovanni Salbrini, for that matter. Both are hosses and exhibit a no-nonsense characteristic about them. So I’m not gonna lie and pretend and no-sell the fact that, out of the two of them, I’d much rather be staring my way across the ring at a “Ghost” than a “Big Nasty” by the time the dust settles in this thing. I mean, it’s not exactly a fucking quantum mechanics paradox that one needs to unravel in order to figure out which member of the Pee-Oh-Pee would have the tougher time trying to pick my two-hundred and thirty-eight pound ass out of the ring.
Nothing like showing a hot shot talent their own ass to close out a Rumble. Haha.
But hey, shit could happen. Right? Those boys could get got in the first couple of minutes by an unassuming, vocally challenged bard named Flop, or an outrageous psychopath like Arthur Pleasant. Hell, one of those guys could make it to the very end. Who knows. Or maybe I’m face-to-face with the Raging Dead: a fellow veteran of the same age who, like me, has championships and accolades scurrying out of his asshole like sex gerbils in a thunderstorm. Or better yet, an actual Grizzly Bear. Like we’re in the spiritual successor to fucking Semi-Pro or something.
If I had to choose who I could be alone with at the end, though? It’d probably be with my wife. Who knows, maybe Ice Cold Bitch has pulled the wool over ALL of our eyes and signed up without me knowing and has plans to get her hands on a Steven Osbourne or Ashley Derringer. Doubtful given we never agreed upon a babysitter, but crazier things have happened when it comes to Rumble surprises.
Right... Masuda Jubei-san?
(Eek... too soon?)
But a close second would have to be… Zombie McMorris. The North American Champion. No, scratch that. Alex Scott, the Junior Heavyweight Champion. Damn, I can’t make up my mind, but staring down the figurative barrel of a current reigning Champion of APW would be a nice moment for sure.
NO… wait… I got it… Jaice Wilds! Yeah! Or Mr. Greek Yogurt Himself, Diakos! John McCarty! Fucking… uh… fucking TROLL!?
Doesn’t matter. That wind you just felt was my hand whooshing off whatever blueprints you have for winning this match right off the fucking table. And that’s not me dismissing any of you out there. Not… really, anyway. At the end of the day, I do believe you’re all talented. I DO believe each and every one of you ARE capable. You’re ALL very good wrestlers.
It’s just… you’re not “AS”, you know?
That’s just science.
That’s just mathematical certainty.
That’s just… fucking… reality… and I don’t need to @ everyone down some obligatory list for you to see it. Best part of it all, though? On the walk of shame that 22… 33… 56… 162… 2,020 others are going to take that COUNTLESS others have taken before you? You’re going to look up at that… AlphaTron? Are we calling it the AlphaTron here? Right. You’re going to look up at that AlphaTron and see a certain banner say this:
WINNER OF THE ROYAL RUMBLE MATCH… ERYK VAN WARREN!
And then? Add insult to glory? You get the chance… the HONOR of a LIFETIME to catch a glimpse of the pre-made graphic that just got the okay from the front office to be shown on the screen live in front of millions before you hit the showers:
MAIN EVENT OF 2020 WAYS TO DIE
APW WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP
ERYK VAN WARREN Vs SMITH JONES
Told ya we'd get to "that".
That's right. I WILL go on to compete for the biggest prize in professional wrestling. This time? In a new setting. Against a new opponent, in front of a new audience.For the Alpha-Pro Wrestling… WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP. Because at the end of the day, that's what this is all about, isn't it? It's not about tossing people out of the ring... not in the grand scheme of things, anyway. It's about who can outlast who en route to becoming number one, or in this case, number two contender to the top prize sitting on that lonely fucking mountain. And if you don’t believe me? That’s fine. Everybody is a skeptic until they they're put unconscious by the truth.
And that truth? To find it, all you need to do is a little bit of research on a couple of the SEVEN World Heavyweight Championships I have hanging at home for my wife and daughter to see.Or don’t... and be staggered with awe in the face of my greatness when the bell finally sounds.
Either way is fine with me. Because at Monday Night Metal?
The era of Eryk Van Warren, King of the Motherfuckin' Alphas, rises to conquer all.
