Post by Dominik Santiago on Jan 16, 2012 16:29:08 GMT -5
Triumph had just come onto the air, with the camera swinging around the venue to gauge the reaction of the vibrant crowd. With the patrons cheering and applauding hysterically in the background, the camera pans over to Big Al and Colin Jennings.
Big Al: "Folks welcome to tonight's edition of Triumph, live from the GHW arena in a the great city of Boston!"
Colin Jennings: "We're in the stretch run for Blood Runs Cold. There's one spot left in the Tower of London Deathmatch. "
"I'm just looking forward to see someone wear a chair for a hat."
"Fancy you should say that because-"
Suddenly, the commentary team is spontaneously interrupted from their scripted sounding spiel, as the arena lights abruptly black out. The arena hushes due to the state of confusion, meanwhile Colin begins rambling away from on his headset, attempting to enlighten himself about what was exactly transpiring.
Strong, foreboding drums and an ominous guitar riff begins greeting the spectators. The arena is still quite bewildered, yet remaining quiet with fierce anticipation. Following the warlike drumming, are the vocals leading into "This Blister Exists" by Slipknot. A few of the lights return to their normal fixture, followed by a flow of gas which ebbs slowly across the entrance ramp. Finally an eerie white spotlight focuses on the entrance tunnel, creating a menacing wall of smoke and light. Parting the curtains emerges one Dominik Santiago, dawning a "Hatebreed" T-shirt, black tights, and matching boots. Amidst vociferous, vehement boos and jeers from the Bostonians, the cut-throat Californian makes his way down the ramp, at his usual ostentatiously tedious pace.
"And here's evil incarnate. Whenever he graces us with his presence its newsworthy. The GHW Champion doesn't even bother showing up for matches anymore Al."
"The champion is a busy man Colin. When you're the King, a lot of things need your intention. An insignificant peon like you wouldn't understand such a thing."
"What was more important than facing Jack Tracks last week? Now he won't reclaim his King of the Deathmatch Title."
"He's got a guaranteed re-match in his contract that he can sit on. Besides, he's probably more worried about which ever loser challenges for the GHW Championship."
With his head raised to the heavens and a stern expression stoned in his face, the Assassin continues to saunter, not acknowledging the presence of the fans or anyone else filling the sold out spectrum. As he climbs the steel stairs in a rhythmical fashion his aura remains untainted; he simply extends his hand out for a microphone from the nearby ring attendant. Upon receiving the speaking instrument he enters the squared circle, climbing through the middle and top rope. With his prestigious GHW Championship strapped around his waist, the GWH icon makes his way to the center of the ring.
Clutching the microphone tightly in his hand, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts as his new theme tune ends and becomes a distant memory in the back of the minds of the audience. After taking a deep breath, his smug, condescending nature surfaces in the form of a cocksure grin.
"One blemish here, and leave of absence there, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, you motherfuckers can count on one simple fact..."
The audience holds its breath in anticipation of an arrogant remark, and thus prepares to bombard the ring with a number of obscenities. Dominik extends his hand out, whilst lowering the mic, either soaking in the moment are tentatively delaying the impending profanities. The aforementioned protruding limb suddenly descends toward his coveted prize. His palm slaps the centerpiece repeatedly before transitioning to his back where he commence to unstrap his belt. Bringing his most beloved possession before his cold blue eyes, the words suddenly formulate in the Californian's mind. Having come up with a proper way to express himself, Santiago hoists his GHW Championship into the air, simultaneously shouting into the mic.
"I'M DOMINIK SANTIAGO... AND I AM... BETTER THAN YOU!"
The crowd takes advantage of the opportunity presented before them, quickly voices their disapproval through fierce, passionate boos, coupled with chats of "FUCK YOU DOM" and an array of foreign objects purchased from the concessions stands. The Lord of the Flies drapes the GHW Championship across his shoulder, amused and satisfied with the response from the Glory and Honor lifeblood.
"Stop flattering yourselves, this isn't about you incompetents for once. No, I'm not out here to tell you that I'm your superior, because you already know that. Its common knowledge, its fact, its gospel. There's more pressing things on the table worth my undivided attention. I'm addressing the addressors of the addressors so to speak. First and foremost, lets talk about the King of the Deathmatch Championship.
Dominik scans the arena, the crowd having died down and quieted as opposed to the frantic abhorrent chaos they where immersed in mere moments ago. As they listen intently, the former KOTDM champion continues his rant.
"There's not much to say about it now that I think and contemplate for a second. To Nick Carson, or whomever manages to survive the Tower of London Deathmatch come Blood Runs Cold, just know I'll be waiting in the wings. Just know I'll be lurking the shadows around Total Carnage, plotting against you, studying you, finding your weaknesses and ways to stifle your strengths. Just know that at NeXus I will invoke my rematch clause, and assassinate you and your career. Be it on your terms, or minds, NeXus will be your funeral, and the commencement of my second reign as the King of Deathmatches."
The mere prospect of bloodshed and broken bodies momentarily exits members of the audience, others remaining quiescent.
"And for the second order of business. You see the King of the Deathmatch Title is not that important to management. Its only here to appease the sadistic appetites of you inbred rednecks. They'd careless if one of you morons were the champion. No, the championship they really don't want me to have is the one that rests on my shoulders right now. This GHW Championship, it is the physical embodiment, sole representation of greatness, and superiority. It means I Dominik Santiago, have successfully pulled this establishment from desecration. It means I'm the the present and the future. It means I'm the face of this company."
"The Board, the shareholders, the mongoloids in suits and ties, they don't want me at the top, for the simple fact that I greet the idea of conforming to their system with a middle finger salute. I regulate myself, and therefore am bound to nobodies rules. It sickens them. If you wont abide by the law, they'll work the law against you. There's no secret that the Board was behind my defending of the KOTDM and GHW Championship multiple times in span of a few weeks respectively. They're trying to get rid of me. The sheep are budding heads together in order to get rid of the big bad wolf. They want a better, friendlier champion; one you can tip your hat off too, one the kids will support and cheer for. That's why the sent Freebird McCoy after me..."
The mention of the Blue Collar Brawler's name garnishes a massive pop from the patrons. Dominik smiles superciliously, though in his mind he recollects their brief bloody rivalry that dominated December.
"Yes, I ended his streak, and ended his career, I mean if that's what you idiots are cheering about. I rid GHW of him, just like I did Hayden Hardkore, when I slayed his legend and defeated him along with the overrated Mighty Man Millson and the abomination known as Jaggeroth, all in the spam of an hour and some change consecutively. They've gone back to the drawing board; they've found another marketable drone. But just like I showed that the hardworking American, Freebird McCoy's blue collar ethic wasn't good enough to be champion, I'm going to prove to you a beer drinking, bull charging, cunt won't be able to defeat me either."
The crowd momentarily ponders about whom exactly is being reference by the cocky champion. Some members of the crowd realize the identity of the man in question, as "Barta Bull" chants are heard in the outskirts of the arena.
"I'm going to play the role of a true matador. I've provoked, and now I'm going to embarrass the bull. So please, Barta come get your 15 seconds of fame. Meet me in this ring right now, face to face, and show, no prove me right to these cretins. Prove to them that you pale in comparison to your Homo Superior. Prove to them that you will never be the GHW Champion..."
The microphone drops to the champion's side as he and the arena wait patiently to see if Barta Bull will emerge to answer the challenge.
TBCB Barta Bull (preferably)
Big Al: "Folks welcome to tonight's edition of Triumph, live from the GHW arena in a the great city of Boston!"
Colin Jennings: "We're in the stretch run for Blood Runs Cold. There's one spot left in the Tower of London Deathmatch. "
"I'm just looking forward to see someone wear a chair for a hat."
"Fancy you should say that because-"
Suddenly, the commentary team is spontaneously interrupted from their scripted sounding spiel, as the arena lights abruptly black out. The arena hushes due to the state of confusion, meanwhile Colin begins rambling away from on his headset, attempting to enlighten himself about what was exactly transpiring.
Strong, foreboding drums and an ominous guitar riff begins greeting the spectators. The arena is still quite bewildered, yet remaining quiet with fierce anticipation. Following the warlike drumming, are the vocals leading into "This Blister Exists" by Slipknot. A few of the lights return to their normal fixture, followed by a flow of gas which ebbs slowly across the entrance ramp. Finally an eerie white spotlight focuses on the entrance tunnel, creating a menacing wall of smoke and light. Parting the curtains emerges one Dominik Santiago, dawning a "Hatebreed" T-shirt, black tights, and matching boots. Amidst vociferous, vehement boos and jeers from the Bostonians, the cut-throat Californian makes his way down the ramp, at his usual ostentatiously tedious pace.
"And here's evil incarnate. Whenever he graces us with his presence its newsworthy. The GHW Champion doesn't even bother showing up for matches anymore Al."
"The champion is a busy man Colin. When you're the King, a lot of things need your intention. An insignificant peon like you wouldn't understand such a thing."
"What was more important than facing Jack Tracks last week? Now he won't reclaim his King of the Deathmatch Title."
"He's got a guaranteed re-match in his contract that he can sit on. Besides, he's probably more worried about which ever loser challenges for the GHW Championship."
With his head raised to the heavens and a stern expression stoned in his face, the Assassin continues to saunter, not acknowledging the presence of the fans or anyone else filling the sold out spectrum. As he climbs the steel stairs in a rhythmical fashion his aura remains untainted; he simply extends his hand out for a microphone from the nearby ring attendant. Upon receiving the speaking instrument he enters the squared circle, climbing through the middle and top rope. With his prestigious GHW Championship strapped around his waist, the GWH icon makes his way to the center of the ring.
Clutching the microphone tightly in his hand, he takes a moment to gather his thoughts as his new theme tune ends and becomes a distant memory in the back of the minds of the audience. After taking a deep breath, his smug, condescending nature surfaces in the form of a cocksure grin.
"One blemish here, and leave of absence there, it doesn't change anything. At the end of the day, you motherfuckers can count on one simple fact..."
The audience holds its breath in anticipation of an arrogant remark, and thus prepares to bombard the ring with a number of obscenities. Dominik extends his hand out, whilst lowering the mic, either soaking in the moment are tentatively delaying the impending profanities. The aforementioned protruding limb suddenly descends toward his coveted prize. His palm slaps the centerpiece repeatedly before transitioning to his back where he commence to unstrap his belt. Bringing his most beloved possession before his cold blue eyes, the words suddenly formulate in the Californian's mind. Having come up with a proper way to express himself, Santiago hoists his GHW Championship into the air, simultaneously shouting into the mic.
"I'M DOMINIK SANTIAGO... AND I AM... BETTER THAN YOU!"
The crowd takes advantage of the opportunity presented before them, quickly voices their disapproval through fierce, passionate boos, coupled with chats of "FUCK YOU DOM" and an array of foreign objects purchased from the concessions stands. The Lord of the Flies drapes the GHW Championship across his shoulder, amused and satisfied with the response from the Glory and Honor lifeblood.
"Stop flattering yourselves, this isn't about you incompetents for once. No, I'm not out here to tell you that I'm your superior, because you already know that. Its common knowledge, its fact, its gospel. There's more pressing things on the table worth my undivided attention. I'm addressing the addressors of the addressors so to speak. First and foremost, lets talk about the King of the Deathmatch Championship.
Dominik scans the arena, the crowd having died down and quieted as opposed to the frantic abhorrent chaos they where immersed in mere moments ago. As they listen intently, the former KOTDM champion continues his rant.
"There's not much to say about it now that I think and contemplate for a second. To Nick Carson, or whomever manages to survive the Tower of London Deathmatch come Blood Runs Cold, just know I'll be waiting in the wings. Just know I'll be lurking the shadows around Total Carnage, plotting against you, studying you, finding your weaknesses and ways to stifle your strengths. Just know that at NeXus I will invoke my rematch clause, and assassinate you and your career. Be it on your terms, or minds, NeXus will be your funeral, and the commencement of my second reign as the King of Deathmatches."
The mere prospect of bloodshed and broken bodies momentarily exits members of the audience, others remaining quiescent.
"And for the second order of business. You see the King of the Deathmatch Title is not that important to management. Its only here to appease the sadistic appetites of you inbred rednecks. They'd careless if one of you morons were the champion. No, the championship they really don't want me to have is the one that rests on my shoulders right now. This GHW Championship, it is the physical embodiment, sole representation of greatness, and superiority. It means I Dominik Santiago, have successfully pulled this establishment from desecration. It means I'm the the present and the future. It means I'm the face of this company."
"The Board, the shareholders, the mongoloids in suits and ties, they don't want me at the top, for the simple fact that I greet the idea of conforming to their system with a middle finger salute. I regulate myself, and therefore am bound to nobodies rules. It sickens them. If you wont abide by the law, they'll work the law against you. There's no secret that the Board was behind my defending of the KOTDM and GHW Championship multiple times in span of a few weeks respectively. They're trying to get rid of me. The sheep are budding heads together in order to get rid of the big bad wolf. They want a better, friendlier champion; one you can tip your hat off too, one the kids will support and cheer for. That's why the sent Freebird McCoy after me..."
The mention of the Blue Collar Brawler's name garnishes a massive pop from the patrons. Dominik smiles superciliously, though in his mind he recollects their brief bloody rivalry that dominated December.
"Yes, I ended his streak, and ended his career, I mean if that's what you idiots are cheering about. I rid GHW of him, just like I did Hayden Hardkore, when I slayed his legend and defeated him along with the overrated Mighty Man Millson and the abomination known as Jaggeroth, all in the spam of an hour and some change consecutively. They've gone back to the drawing board; they've found another marketable drone. But just like I showed that the hardworking American, Freebird McCoy's blue collar ethic wasn't good enough to be champion, I'm going to prove to you a beer drinking, bull charging, cunt won't be able to defeat me either."
The crowd momentarily ponders about whom exactly is being reference by the cocky champion. Some members of the crowd realize the identity of the man in question, as "Barta Bull" chants are heard in the outskirts of the arena.
"I'm going to play the role of a true matador. I've provoked, and now I'm going to embarrass the bull. So please, Barta come get your 15 seconds of fame. Meet me in this ring right now, face to face, and show, no prove me right to these cretins. Prove to them that you pale in comparison to your Homo Superior. Prove to them that you will never be the GHW Champion..."
The microphone drops to the champion's side as he and the arena wait patiently to see if Barta Bull will emerge to answer the challenge.
TBCB Barta Bull (preferably)
