Post by Jaice Wilds on Mar 8, 2020 22:56:40 GMT -5
Wilds checks his phone, shaking his head. He puts it in his pocket, grabbing his jacket from his locker. He starts pulling it on when a large black man enters the room.
Reggie Feltzer:
Hey, Flippy. Calling in someone who actually knows how to wrestle?
Wilds grins, shaking his head. He walks over, embracing his adopted brother. He backs up a bit, furrowing his brow.
Jaice Wilds:
Says the strongman who can't lift his own ego.
They share a chuckle, Reggie slapping his little brother's shoulder. Wilds' phone buzzes; he checks it for a second and drops it into his pocket. His face is less than happy.
Reggie Feltzer:
Penny for your thoughts?
Wilds shrugs, sighing as he looks to his larger sibling.
Jaice Wilds:
It's Meghan. She's not returning my texts, and I can never quite seem to catch her in the locker rooms.
Reggie Feltzer:
Ignoring the slight stalker vibe from the last part of that; what's the big deal? She's wrestling again, she followed you here, and she's got a win already.
Jaice shakes his head, breathing deeply as he leads his brother out the door.
Jaice Wilds:
I just want to welcome her back to the business and wish her luck in the tourney. But I'm pretty sure she's actively ignoring me. I mean, she could at least shoot back a "thanks, I'm good", but I'm not even getting that. Everything the Order went through…
Reggie stops his brother with a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Jaice looks up, defeated.
Reggie Feltzer:
The Order is over, man. I know you thrive on those glory days to surf through the present, but Meg is her own person. She's probably got Scott breathing down her neck about jumping back in after so long, and it isn't helping that the one constant member of the crew is suddenly blowing her up. Just… give her time. She'll come around when she's ready, you can shake hands and do what you each have to do without getting irritated with each other.
Jaice sighs, hanging his head. He takes a moment, pondering. He starts shaking his head as he looks up, a grin.
Jaice Wilds:
You're a pain in the dick when you're right. You know that?
The two men share a laugh as they continue to speak, heading for the parking deck.
-----------------------------------------
The following is a letter addressed to El Muertos, intercepted and published to the Alpha Pro Wrestling website.
Redemption.
That seems to be the running theme to my career. Whether I'm fighting for respect among the rookies, going to war against the scourge of the business, or simply showing the upper echelon why I belong amongst their ranks. I always find myself in a position beneath where I should be, putting the work in to turn things around.
Last week, I put my trust in my partner. I had Spartan's back, and I had faith he would have mine. He lived up to his end of that partnership- I just failed on my end. Luckily for me, I have an opportunity to do what I do best and come back with a fury. To burst forth from the ashes and assert my position on the roster. And that… that is where you come in.
El Muertos.
This is- what- our 3rd encounter? We met at the Battle Royale, where you managed to toss me out of the ring after a hell of an onslaught.
Last week, you and PKA gave Uncanny X-Men all you had; and your partner actually managed to trip me up long enough to gain a pinfall. Well, one of them, anyways. After all, there's a reason we have this buffer match of sorts.
So it comes to this. Two men, nacido del caos, battling it out for supremacy. But it is far more than that, no? I know you come from Mexico, the home of lucha libre. But more than that; you're a native of Mexico City; one of the more dangerous parts of the country. I know you've had a rough go, señor bueno, and the trauma of your childhood admittedly far outweighs my own. But we both have fought tooth and nail to become guerreros feroces in a world that actually accepts us for what we are and where we come from.
That said, mi adversario digno; this is a war. A beast of a man, who dons the mask of El Muertos himself. You chose your avatar well, mi amigo. For all the challenges one faces in life, the one loss no-one can avoid forever is death. And to that end, the majority often miedo y respeto their final lap of life.
But you are facing la encarnación viviente of defiance. A man who does not fear death, but rather embraces it as a means to draw from the adrenaline rush. A man who puts his body on the line, treating every scar as a proud reminder of his autodestructivo actions. Indeed, as the rest of humanity, I have a high level of respect for death. But death, in its purest form, is an escape from the futilities and fallacies of this world; and is something I face gladly.
It comes down to fuerza y rabia battling experiencia y fortaleza. Generally speaking, El Muertos, the advantage would go to your size and power. But this week, you will learn what happens when one abraza fear and turns it into a weapon. You'll finally get to experience what happens when you step into that ring alone against the most lethal competitor this sport has seen over the last decade. And when all is said and done, one of us will aid our partners to the next round of APW's Tag Title Tournament…
And the other will simply be...
El Muertos.
Aplausos a la batalla gloriosa, my friend. May your fall affect your record, but never your pride.
-----------------------------------------
Wilds looks at his computer, reviewing tape. His Bluetooth hangs from his ear like a douche, but he only pulls it out when he needs to. So whatever. He shakes his head, taking a breath.
Jaice Wilds:
I understand, Sparto. I'm reviewing some tapes now, getting a feel for his style. I know. Yes, and… yeah. I get that. I won't let you down, partner. We're going into next week as members of the Tag Tournament. A'ight. See you Monday.
Wilds hits a button on the bluetooth, removing it from his ear. He rewinds the footage a bit, scanning over for clarity. A slight ring emanates from the speakers, Wilds furrowing his brow. He seems a bit distracted, clicking on his screen… and laughs. He nods, standing and heading for the kitchen. He looks back in, watching Jason Ryan and Ira Stevenson discussing something as they leave the arena after last Metal…
Reggie Feltzer:
Hey, Flippy. Calling in someone who actually knows how to wrestle?
Wilds grins, shaking his head. He walks over, embracing his adopted brother. He backs up a bit, furrowing his brow.
Jaice Wilds:
Says the strongman who can't lift his own ego.
They share a chuckle, Reggie slapping his little brother's shoulder. Wilds' phone buzzes; he checks it for a second and drops it into his pocket. His face is less than happy.
Reggie Feltzer:
Penny for your thoughts?
Wilds shrugs, sighing as he looks to his larger sibling.
Jaice Wilds:
It's Meghan. She's not returning my texts, and I can never quite seem to catch her in the locker rooms.
Reggie Feltzer:
Ignoring the slight stalker vibe from the last part of that; what's the big deal? She's wrestling again, she followed you here, and she's got a win already.
Jaice shakes his head, breathing deeply as he leads his brother out the door.
Jaice Wilds:
I just want to welcome her back to the business and wish her luck in the tourney. But I'm pretty sure she's actively ignoring me. I mean, she could at least shoot back a "thanks, I'm good", but I'm not even getting that. Everything the Order went through…
Reggie stops his brother with a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Jaice looks up, defeated.
Reggie Feltzer:
The Order is over, man. I know you thrive on those glory days to surf through the present, but Meg is her own person. She's probably got Scott breathing down her neck about jumping back in after so long, and it isn't helping that the one constant member of the crew is suddenly blowing her up. Just… give her time. She'll come around when she's ready, you can shake hands and do what you each have to do without getting irritated with each other.
Jaice sighs, hanging his head. He takes a moment, pondering. He starts shaking his head as he looks up, a grin.
Jaice Wilds:
You're a pain in the dick when you're right. You know that?
The two men share a laugh as they continue to speak, heading for the parking deck.
-----------------------------------------
The following is a letter addressed to El Muertos, intercepted and published to the Alpha Pro Wrestling website.
Redemption.
That seems to be the running theme to my career. Whether I'm fighting for respect among the rookies, going to war against the scourge of the business, or simply showing the upper echelon why I belong amongst their ranks. I always find myself in a position beneath where I should be, putting the work in to turn things around.
Last week, I put my trust in my partner. I had Spartan's back, and I had faith he would have mine. He lived up to his end of that partnership- I just failed on my end. Luckily for me, I have an opportunity to do what I do best and come back with a fury. To burst forth from the ashes and assert my position on the roster. And that… that is where you come in.
El Muertos.
This is- what- our 3rd encounter? We met at the Battle Royale, where you managed to toss me out of the ring after a hell of an onslaught.
Last week, you and PKA gave Uncanny X-Men all you had; and your partner actually managed to trip me up long enough to gain a pinfall. Well, one of them, anyways. After all, there's a reason we have this buffer match of sorts.
So it comes to this. Two men, nacido del caos, battling it out for supremacy. But it is far more than that, no? I know you come from Mexico, the home of lucha libre. But more than that; you're a native of Mexico City; one of the more dangerous parts of the country. I know you've had a rough go, señor bueno, and the trauma of your childhood admittedly far outweighs my own. But we both have fought tooth and nail to become guerreros feroces in a world that actually accepts us for what we are and where we come from.
That said, mi adversario digno; this is a war. A beast of a man, who dons the mask of El Muertos himself. You chose your avatar well, mi amigo. For all the challenges one faces in life, the one loss no-one can avoid forever is death. And to that end, the majority often miedo y respeto their final lap of life.
But you are facing la encarnación viviente of defiance. A man who does not fear death, but rather embraces it as a means to draw from the adrenaline rush. A man who puts his body on the line, treating every scar as a proud reminder of his autodestructivo actions. Indeed, as the rest of humanity, I have a high level of respect for death. But death, in its purest form, is an escape from the futilities and fallacies of this world; and is something I face gladly.
It comes down to fuerza y rabia battling experiencia y fortaleza. Generally speaking, El Muertos, the advantage would go to your size and power. But this week, you will learn what happens when one abraza fear and turns it into a weapon. You'll finally get to experience what happens when you step into that ring alone against the most lethal competitor this sport has seen over the last decade. And when all is said and done, one of us will aid our partners to the next round of APW's Tag Title Tournament…
And the other will simply be...
El Muertos.
Aplausos a la batalla gloriosa, my friend. May your fall affect your record, but never your pride.
-----------------------------------------
Wilds looks at his computer, reviewing tape. His Bluetooth hangs from his ear like a douche, but he only pulls it out when he needs to. So whatever. He shakes his head, taking a breath.
Jaice Wilds:
I understand, Sparto. I'm reviewing some tapes now, getting a feel for his style. I know. Yes, and… yeah. I get that. I won't let you down, partner. We're going into next week as members of the Tag Tournament. A'ight. See you Monday.
Wilds hits a button on the bluetooth, removing it from his ear. He rewinds the footage a bit, scanning over for clarity. A slight ring emanates from the speakers, Wilds furrowing his brow. He seems a bit distracted, clicking on his screen… and laughs. He nods, standing and heading for the kitchen. He looks back in, watching Jason Ryan and Ira Stevenson discussing something as they leave the arena after last Metal…
