Triple Threat First Blood Match

[Carson Schraeder]

The crowd are buzzing, as a drumbeat bursts through the speakers, the bass reverberating off of the walls, until a guitar joins in, followed shortly after by Chad Kroeger's vocals.

Who's coming with me
to kick a hole in the sky?
I love the whiskey,
let's drink that shit til its dry.
so grab a Jim Beam, JD, whatever you need.
Have a shot from the bottle,
doesn't matter to me.
'Nother round, fill 'er up ,
hammer down, grab a cup,
bottoms up!


All of a sudden, the muscular frame of the 6'6" Texan, Carson Schraeder strides out from the back, wearing his black jeans, white wrestling boots and a black cowboy hat. Clutched in his hand is a can of beer. Schraeder stops on the stage, and cracks open the beer, and proceeds to down it, crushing it in his hand and throwing can into the crowd. The Austin native proceeds down the ramp, eyes locked on the ring, as he slowly strides down the ramp.

"The following contest is a Triple Threat First Blood Match. The match can only end, when one of the superstars begins to bleed! Introducing first, from Austin, Texas, weighing in at two hundred and seventy two pounds, Carson Scraeder."


This is what it's all about, no one can slow us down.
We ain't gonna stop until the clock runs out.
Bottoms up!
Hell can't handle all of us, so get your bottles up.
Drinkin' every drop until it all runs out.
'Nother round, fill 'er up, hammer down, grab a cup, bottoms up!

Ohh, bottoms up...

Schraeder strides down the ramp, never once taking his gaze off of the ring, and he finally reaches the entranceway. He pauses for a moment, and scans the crowd, who are getting pumped. He smiles wryly, and walks to the apron, reaches up and grabs the top rope, and pulls himself up onto the skirting.

So grab your best friends and make your way to the bar.
But keep your distance, we're gonna light it on fire.
We're drinking black tooth, 80 proof, straight gasoline.
Slam as much as you can take and hand the bottle to me.
'Nother round, fill 'er up, hammer down, grab a cup, bottoms up!

This is what it's all about, no one can slow us down.
We ain't gonna stop until the clock runs out.
Bottoms up!
Hell can't handle all of us, so get your bottles up.
Drinkin' every drop until it all runs out.
'Nother round, fill 'er up, hammer down, grab a cup, bottoms up!

Ohh, bottoms up...

Schraeder backs into the corner and turns around, eyeing off the crowd, as he awaits his opponents.

(Sorry I haven't been active for a while, was holed up in hospital for 5 days with pneumonia and an asthma attack )

[Wyziner]

Amidst the raucous cheers of the crowd, the fan-fare of the open moments of the show and the clatter of the scurrying ring crew, there is another sound. It is a small sound that cannot be generated nor heard, it is a sound beneath the sound, the subtle hum of anticipation. Everyone’s focus is on the black velvet curtain that separates the stage from the rest of the arena; it is like a veil between two worlds, the stage is where the man puts on his mask and plays his part, where reality melds with fiction and becomes a beautiful opera, rife with drama, comedy, and sport. It is here where legends are made and stories are written in blood. Just beyond the veil the actualities of life breed an atmosphere severity; debts and responsibilities take away from the pageantry of the affair and every player is here because his life and his livelihood depend on his performance.

Wyziner stands behind the veil and the cluster of butterflies in his stomach buzz continuously. Here he is, seconds away from another performance, and as always his palms are sweaty, his heart pounds, a thunderous, eerie pounding; a war rages in his heart and fear defeats confidence, preparation, and duty. He closes his eyes and lifts his head waiting for the music; his knees buckle, and he stares at the bleak emptiness of the black curtain, considering what lies in wait on the other side with severe trepidation. The fear causes him to tremble, and he clinches his fist to counter-act this affect. The rift of the base ebbs in over the clamor of the arena. It’s time.

♪ Well, the crooks are out
And the streets are gray
You know I wouldn't have it
Any other way, yeah

Your mother's words
They're, they're ringing still
But your mother
Don't pay our bills, yeah


Instantaneously fear subsides and he tips out from behind the curtain and onto the stage, through the effect of a thick fog created for theatrics. He is cool and walks with boldness, a swagger, pure bravado; and his tall lanky form and dark hair gives him elegance uncommon among the other men in his profession. He is painted with arrogance; it mingles with the confidence that has replaced his fear, and drips from every pore of his body leaving a trail in his wake. He carries this sly smirk on his face, as if he has a secret knowledge to which no one else is privy; as if his all black attire, his walk, and the simplicity of his processional, are all apart of some greater mystery.

"Making his to the ring from Las Vegas; he's six feet and four inches tall, weighing two-hundred twenty-five pounds, Wyziner!"

♪If I kill a man
In the first degree
Baby, would you
Would you flee with me?

A sinister kid, is a kid who
Runs to meet his maker
A drop dead sprint from the day he's born
Straight into his makers arms


The final bars of his anthem swell throughout the arena, and he marches up the steps to meet his opponent
Tonight it's Schraeder.


♪And that's me, that's me
The boy with the broken halo
That's me, that's me
The devil won't let me be

[Carson Schraeder]

((Violence hasn't been on in 2 weeks, so we can just assume he is already in the ring, and start the match, if that is ok )

[Wyziner]

I agree; go ahead and tee-off

[Psychotic Circus]

(Permission granted. Start this fucker off.)