Post by Smith Jones on Oct 29, 2019 22:27:12 GMT -5
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“You’re a scawy shark, aren’t you, Zy?”
The video fades out. Fade up on a shot of Smith Jones’ face in stark closeup. He wears a crooked grin as he locks his icy eyes on the camera lens.
“I’m Smith Jones. Doo doo doo doo doo doo.
Where did you get such cheesy lines from, Simmons? Who writes your stuff? You mention Jubei a lot. Is it Jubei? Ghost writer? No? Hey, my career is on life support according to you. Maybe I could donate you my gut so you can feel for yourself how much people like you make me want to puke!
Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been called boring by people who simply weren’t mentally developed enough to comprehend my words? No offense. ‘All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.’ Those are not my words, but I believe them wholeheartedly. As a true genius. I cannot help but to know these words are true. I can see the future and I know that yours, while midly entertaining, will be short-lived. You’re still living off of the adrenal rush of being young in the game; endlessly inspired and ready for anything! Right? That’s you right now. That’s how it feels to be riding high on a sick win streak, facing a run-down champ a few years past his best day.
You are… sorely mistaken if you believe that you can buy your way to the top. Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is to all the people I know in this game like Timothy Morales and AJ Morales (no relation) and Amy Jo Smyth and Bryte and Annie & Dom?! Yikes, I don’t wanna miss anyone like Lex Collins and West McFadden and Damon Warrens and Redeemer Riley and Kitty Pertrova and Griffin Hawkins and so many more… These are the proverbial journeymen of this business who know what I mean when I say that the game has changed because they were RIGHT HERE just like I was doing this thing at the top of our games when this game was in its infancy. We, out of the many names you’ve never ever heard of from the past, are the ones who were able to have the staying power to repeatedly reinvent ourselves and make changes to the way we compete in that ring to keep ourselves alive and still holding gold YEARS LATER.
What? You gonna call me old now? It’s easy to sit there in your office in your skyscraping ivory tower and daydream about shutting my championship up in your trophy case. This championship is mine. This World is mine and I do NOT plan on handing it over to anyone. If you want this gold, it’s going to have to be a hostile takeover. Please, pretty please plan a hostile takeover. Come at me aggressively and try to rip this belt out of my hands. Believe in yourself and give it your all when you charge across the ring at me and attempt to realize a dream you think you can buy.
I am thirty-five years old. Judge that how you choose. Your entire philosophy on championship acquisition is an affront to everything I've done in my career and I don't like it one bit. My continuing longevity stands as proof that I am… incredible. You can’t just yell out that YOU ARE BETTER THAN SMITH JONES three times and make it poof into existence. Life doesn’t work that way. You can’t buy instinct or intuition. Life doesn’t work that way. You can’t buy ‘it’ factor. You can’t pay for balance or strength or speed. You can’t afford the pain and suffering I have endured my whole life long. You can’t be me. You cannot be Smith Jones. I have to do it! You wouldn’t be able to take it, Dot Com. I came from nothing…
...but, I refused to remain nothing.”
The camera slowly zooms out from Smith’s face and reveals that he is sitting on the roof of a random house late in the evening in a neighbourhood we have never seen. Presumably Toronto, but who knows? He’s dressed in a long, green raincoat with a yellow rain hat and tall, black rain boots. He even has rain pants on under the raincoat. Smith has a fishing rod cast over the side of the house. The camera moves away further and further to shot of the house he is sitting on, all dress up for Halloween. There are Jack-O-Lanterns and skeletons and ghosts and spider webs and lights. There are bloody handprints on the inside of the front window that smear downwards. Fake blood… of course. With the fishing line, Jones is trying to hook the spider from its web below. Even though Smith is speaking in a low growl, we can hear him quite clearly from this far away. He remains perched on the roof.
“I’ve competed in more APW Main Events than any wrestler in this company. I have a win over Wolf’s number one contender. And I am forced to recognize that the hardcore division here in APW is more innovative and impactful than I’d originally stated. They are crazy. Don’t get me wrong, I still very much despise to watch them do what they do, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t killing it.
That said, let me remind you, Zy, that this is HorrorKore and The World Title is not hardcore. I am borderline embarassed to say out loud that we will be competing in a Zombie Lumberjack Match. Do you have any idea how far I’ve gone in my career to avoid having to say things like that? Almost as embarrassing as a Tuxedo Match or an On A Pole Match. It’s Halloween. I get it! I love Halloween!!! But, I love my dignity more.
That’s why…”
Finally, he hooks the decorative spider and reels it in towards himself. He takes it off the hook and begins to break the legs off it one by one.
“On Halloween night, it won’t matter if you dress up as a spider or a snake or a honey badger or a wolf or walk around the neighbourhood calling yourself a shark. When Smith Jones hooks you, Smith Jones does not let go until every fleshy chunk of you stops moving. Those zombies that will surround the ring will not discriminate as to which one of us they devour. So, I’m going to do everything it takes to ensure that it is not me.
You should be proud of everything you’ve done to get to this point, but this is the end of the line for you, Zy. This buyout ain’t hap’nin. The APW World Heavyweight Wrestling Championship is not for sale.
Your finisher is a killer move. So is my Point of Controversy. Neither of us is going to walk out of HorrorKore the same as we went in. We will both be living a real life nightmare when we part the ropes and trap ourselves inside like the cast of a high stress slasher flick. I’m not going to waste a single second waiting to cause you the required damage to feed you to the horde. I’m going to use the PoC to crack your skull open like a fresh morning egg and serve it up with a side of human back bacon. Who doesn’t like bacon? And when it is all said and done, people will forevermore tell the sickening tale of the untimely demise of Zion Simmons ending with these chilling words.
Point of Controversy.
Pinfall.
One… two… three.”
Fade to black.
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We see Smith Jones and his teenaged son Copeland Sanderson walking through Bluffer’s Park at the edge of Lake Ontario in Toronto. The air is crisp and cold, blowing across the water and meeting their faces with a brisk chill. They both wrap their long, gray coats a little tighter and walk on.
“I said ‘no’.”
“Why not?! I told you I’ve been working the indies and making a name for myself. I’m working some of the same circuits you worked coming up. Remember the PWF shows you used to work at the high school?”
“You’ve got a long way to go from the Jackson High cafeteria to filling Rogers Centre. You’ve got work to do.”
“That’s what I’m saying is that I’m already on the path! I’m trained up in the very basics and I’m working community centres and night club shows to get my steps in on the canvas. I take the bus and the train to the training ring four nights a week after school just like you did! And, naught for nothing, I’m starting even younger than you did!”
Smith puts a hand on Copeland’s chest and they both stop walking. They square up to look each other in the eye as waves crash against the rocks next to them.
“You’re seventeen years old. You shouldn’t be competing for another year!”
“I’ll be eighteen on Thursday!”
“Halloween? HorrorKore?”
Smith mulls over the timing for a beat.
“Want tix?”
“I WANT YOU TO TRAIN ME! You’re my FATHER!”
“Jury’s still out on that one, Copeland! Pending DNA testing.”
“Why are you always such a dick?!! You’re worthless to me!”
Copeland turns and walks back in the direction they just came from. His words echo is Smith’s mind as he stands frozen, unable to move a muscle. 'Worthless'... He then blurts.
“Climb the Bluffs.”
“What? You know the City of Toronto wants people to pay for their own rescues now, eh?”
Copeland is still walking away. Jones rushes over and catches up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and spinning him to face the rocky face of The Scarborough Bluffs.
“I climbed the Bluffs when I was a child. I was ten years old. I made it. You wanna be just like daddy? Climb the Bluffs and I will consider teaching you a sliver of what I know about in ring competition.”
“Climb?”
“There’s only one way to the top… son.”
Copeland takes off in the direction of the cliff face.
