Post by genericheel on Nov 25, 2018 18:49:54 GMT
“...you can do this…”
A scratchy voice.
“...you can do this…”
Filled with desperation.
“...you can do this…”
Bursting with a sadness which pulls at us, brings us down into the depths of darkness.
“...you can do this…”
A man with scraggly hair rocks back and forth in a dark room, a small lamp adding meager light. The room is sparse in furnishing, offering us with nothing but a table, two of the legs cracked and the surface tarnered to the point of a shine being ages long past, and a cot on the wooden floor. The floor is strewn with empty liquor bottles thrown about in a haphazard way. The man, dressed in black pants and a matching long sleeve button up shirt, sits on the cot, his knees drawn up to him, his boots flat on the floor.
“...you can do this…”
The shaggy hair falling to his face is brown, but is filled with so much grey that it adds years to his age, and shines with in the dull light with speaks of an oily texture. His face is full of grizzled stubble, the hairs seeming to be stiff and coarse. His eyes are a sky blue and might well be beautiful had it not been for the deep circles underneath them; indeed, the dark purple lining give them a feeling of exhaustion that matches the sadness and desperation in his voice.
“...you can do this…”
His hands are in his lap and dirty fingers clutch a polaroid picture of a raven haired beauty with a red streak flaming down her head and far too much makeup caked onto her face. The polaroid is cracked and torn in places, evidence of either hard times or a refusal to ever let it go, and the state of the man could speak to both. There is a shake in his left hand, a shake which travels from light to severe at seemingly no notice, and at times makes the picture slap against his right hand with a snap.
“...you can do this…”
Over and again, the disheveled man repeats the litany in the decrepit room. A muted rumble can be heard and a small burst of light on his right seems blinding. Another rumble. Another. The man ignores it. But the rumble and light persist. He looks to his right and sees his phone, a notification going off. A resigned sigh slips from him and he sets down the picture before reaching over to pick up the small phone. He flips up the top and reads the notification ruining the darkness thick with sadness.
The man lets out a groan even more resigned and sad than the sigh which came before. He presses a button to dismiss the notification from the old phone and lets it fall to the floor. He looks down at the picture of the beautiful woman with his tired eyes for several moments.
“...you can do this…”
With a groan of protest from aching joints, he gets to his feet, stepping away from his cot and stumbling towards the table. Getting our first good look at him, the man in black is quite large, though not overly tall, with a barrel chest and thick shoulders. His steps are heavy as he gets towards the table, the only other item in the small room other than the cot, mindlessly kicking the empty liquor bottles away with clinks and crashes until finally placing both hands on the edge to steady himself. Both the heaviness of his steps and a grip so tight on the table as to turn his fingers white with intensity shows any viewer that he might well be full of drink. His tired eyes look at the table and take in a red and blue lucha libre mask.
“...just a few more matches…”
The stubble-filled face scrunches in pain as he speaks, as if the words themselves are difficult for him to hear.
“...just a few more, Z, and I can retire. I can do this.”
He takes the mask in both hands, turns it, brings it to his face, and becomes The Generic Heel.
MAIN EVENT: REY DE REYES CHAMPIONSHIP
A scratchy voice.
“...you can do this…”
Filled with desperation.
“...you can do this…”
Bursting with a sadness which pulls at us, brings us down into the depths of darkness.
“...you can do this…”
A man with scraggly hair rocks back and forth in a dark room, a small lamp adding meager light. The room is sparse in furnishing, offering us with nothing but a table, two of the legs cracked and the surface tarnered to the point of a shine being ages long past, and a cot on the wooden floor. The floor is strewn with empty liquor bottles thrown about in a haphazard way. The man, dressed in black pants and a matching long sleeve button up shirt, sits on the cot, his knees drawn up to him, his boots flat on the floor.
“...you can do this…”
The shaggy hair falling to his face is brown, but is filled with so much grey that it adds years to his age, and shines with in the dull light with speaks of an oily texture. His face is full of grizzled stubble, the hairs seeming to be stiff and coarse. His eyes are a sky blue and might well be beautiful had it not been for the deep circles underneath them; indeed, the dark purple lining give them a feeling of exhaustion that matches the sadness and desperation in his voice.
“...you can do this…”
His hands are in his lap and dirty fingers clutch a polaroid picture of a raven haired beauty with a red streak flaming down her head and far too much makeup caked onto her face. The polaroid is cracked and torn in places, evidence of either hard times or a refusal to ever let it go, and the state of the man could speak to both. There is a shake in his left hand, a shake which travels from light to severe at seemingly no notice, and at times makes the picture slap against his right hand with a snap.
“...you can do this…”
Over and again, the disheveled man repeats the litany in the decrepit room. A muted rumble can be heard and a small burst of light on his right seems blinding. Another rumble. Another. The man ignores it. But the rumble and light persist. He looks to his right and sees his phone, a notification going off. A resigned sigh slips from him and he sets down the picture before reaching over to pick up the small phone. He flips up the top and reads the notification ruining the darkness thick with sadness.
GO TO WORK
The man lets out a groan even more resigned and sad than the sigh which came before. He presses a button to dismiss the notification from the old phone and lets it fall to the floor. He looks down at the picture of the beautiful woman with his tired eyes for several moments.
“...you can do this…”
With a groan of protest from aching joints, he gets to his feet, stepping away from his cot and stumbling towards the table. Getting our first good look at him, the man in black is quite large, though not overly tall, with a barrel chest and thick shoulders. His steps are heavy as he gets towards the table, the only other item in the small room other than the cot, mindlessly kicking the empty liquor bottles away with clinks and crashes until finally placing both hands on the edge to steady himself. Both the heaviness of his steps and a grip so tight on the table as to turn his fingers white with intensity shows any viewer that he might well be full of drink. His tired eyes look at the table and take in a red and blue lucha libre mask.
“...just a few more matches…”
The stubble-filled face scrunches in pain as he speaks, as if the words themselves are difficult for him to hear.
“...just a few more, Z, and I can retire. I can do this.”
He takes the mask in both hands, turns it, brings it to his face, and becomes The Generic Heel.
-----------------------It's Time-------------------------
**rock music that would make any hot Asian chicks’ pants fall off**
-----------------------It's Time-------------------------
**more rock music that makes Jana want to hump the radio**
-----------------------It's Generic Time-------------------------
**one last bit of smokin' hot rock music that would turn Keiri Johnson straight again**
**oh, and did I mention that the guitar rock is actually sung by the Generic Heel? Yeah, its that amazing**
Oh...oh God....oh sweet Baby Jesus....cut the fuckin’ music....
**The music coming through your radio/smartphone/whatever new fangled listening device people use for podcasts comes to an abrupt halt with the screeching of tires**
Jesus Horatio Christ my head hurts. Oh Good Lord...
**Your [insert listening device here] issues forth the sound of a heavy man slamming down into a chair. The sound of creaking comes through those speakers, as well as papers being shoved to the floor**
How the fuck did I end up doing this shit again? God, I hate my life. Where's my fuckin' drink?
**The sounds of a glass jar being popped open and straight-up chugged. Like a fuckin' boss**
Well, let's get this shit over with. So! For all those people out there who don't know who I am, all those pathetic pieces of dumb shit Millennial Bernie voters, my name is the Great GH...GH the Great...the Sexiest Man Alive...the owner of THE BEST wrestling school in the history of wrestling schools….THE GENERIC HEEL!
**Audio of totally smokin' hot Asian chicks plays, sensually saying (sighing!) the name “GENERIC!”**
My job, outside of makin' more hawt mommas pregnant than every Guns 'N Roses concert combined, is to be the single greatest wrestling journalist in the history of everything. And believe you me, I have the awards to prove it! And the titties! Good God, oh dear sweet Baby Jesus, the fuckin' ring rats flock to award-winning wrestling journalists, let me tell you. Now! I'm here in-
**The sound of papers rustling**
Ugh. Guerreros of Lucha. I thought you guys died? Three times? You know what? Whatever. I mean, shit, we’re talking about a business where people retire seven times, Redd comes back from the dead and then transforms into a chick with some pretty decent boobs, time lord turn into lesbians and propose over twitter, and people get laid a day after their husband is kidnapped and murdered by rival drug lords, or something.
“Yo I ain’t dead!”
Heh...never gonna get tired of that sound clip. Anyway, I’m here for a couple of reasons, and besides winning this tournament and later beating whatever pool soul is champ at the time, one of those is fulfilling my duties as THE GREATEST wrestling journalist of all time. See, a few months back, the Disciples of Lucha Libre showed up to my wrestling school, which you can apply to online at genericwrestlingschool.hotgoths.fuckyeah, and, after begging and pleading with me to join their tournament so that they can have SOME semblance of star power, ALSO asked me to make the whole thing relevant by breaking down the first card. Now, Papa GH doesn’t like to disappoint the people who beg, literally on hands and knees, for his approval like some thirsty THOTS online, so I have granted them this blessing. So, lets break down this card, yeah?
Oh, real quick: I don’t fuck around here. I don’t click on picks for acceptance like some closet neckbeard does, or do that dumb quote tweet thing like circle jerks do to get one another off, or any of that self-serving shit that you are gonna see a lot in this tournament. I only tell the truth in the Generic Wrestling Podcast, you understand? I’m like that magical sitar in Moulin Rouge: I only speak the truth. But, like, a sexy sitar. Because FUCK ME I’m sexy. Just ask Honey! And BECAUSE I only tell the truth, what I do is take truth by the balls and squeeze for life. And if you DON’T like hearing the truth, then just jump over to the old GWA network and watch 15 second matches and 30 minute segments. There is PLENTY of lying and bullshit there!
But right here? Right now? It’s truth time!
**we hear some KILLER music, once again sung by GH the Great, filled lots of BICKA BICKA DUBADOUUUUGHHHHHHS! and a SWEET graphic that was TOTALLY NOT done on old MS Paint**
Avery Miles III (c) vs Honey
Now, I TOTALLY get that everything THINKS that this is the main event of the evening, but that’s just not the case. Sure, the title is on the line. And sure, one of my protegees is in the match (yes, two Es; learn the difference between male and female, fucktards!). But! Oh holy hell BUT! Along with Honey, this match ALSO has AM-Trey in it, and ANY match with that dipshit in it can’t POSSIBLY be the main, ya know? I mean, we ARE talking about a dipshit how goes through three marriages in two years and runs from challenges from rookies because of how shook he is right? This HAS to be the curtain jerker. I mean-
Wait
Wait
Wait
He’s your champ?
Hold on, I need a second.
**a groan so deep that it makes every listener think of every bit of sadness they have ever felt be dredged up from the depth of their memories and brought into the light to bear once again**
No WONDER why you guys went out of business. Again. You put the title on AM Trey? How the fuck did THAT happen?! And you’ve done it TWICE? Well, I guess that’s what happens when you let some WCWing hack be champion in the first place for him to beat, but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Thankfully, the crowd also gets to see Honey, who is a sweet girl, and works really hard for her LFL team. And being her Special Teams coach, I can tell you just HOW SWEET dat booty of hers is, let me tell you! Anyway, she’s going to beat AM-Trey in about six moves, so that’ll be nice. Lets get to the tournament!
SUPER AWESOMO EPICO TOURNAMENT 1st round matches!
Orange Soda Deathmatch
Tiger Mask Red vs JT Saint
Now, I have NO IDEA what the FUCK an orange soda deathmatch is, but I DO know that this match can’t POSSIBLY happen. Because Tiger is dead, right? Like, literally died? Totally got offed? He’s the parrot in a Monty Python skit, right?
Oh.
He’s back from the dead.
Is he at least a zombie?
Ya know, dumber shit has happened. Like him having to stand across the ring from one of those Seattle losers. Ugh, that place is terrible. I mean, it’s bad enough that JT still thinks it’s still the 90’s and Rage Against the Machine is any good, but he also works for that Robb moron who loans out his wife for incentive to get people to sign. And how do I know that? Because Lauren hit her knees HARD for me to sign with them, but I told them that the GH Train had NO interest in going to Seattle. I mean, I still showed Lauren what a REAL man looked like downstairs and all, but no WAY am I going to Seattle.
Where was I?
Oh! Right. Undead Tiger for the win, and that’s partly because he and I are actually kinda-sorta related, but that is a LONG story for another day. Next!
Cobweb Escape Match
Joseph White vs Adam Stryker
So...um...they have to escape from a cobweb? Seriously? What IS this place?! I mean, I once wrestled for a fed that was stuck in the carnies that had a Goldfish on a Pole match, but this is just silly! I’m going with J-White here, because even though he stinks up the joint with all that overplayed Dog of Wars shit, at least he isn’t an extreme fatass like Stryker. Go on a diet, dude! Seriously, go date Jenny Craig and ditch Sarah Lee! J-White to escape before FATam can!
Ladder Match
Jana Riker vs Larry Gowan vs Chris Uno
Welp, we found the hotdog match, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve got the chick who ran the fed that couldn’t even get 30% of her roster to show up, an old man who is probably going to break a hip in the way to the ring, and one of those “I USED TO BE A HARDCORE MONSTER AND AM GONNA BURN THE ENTIRE FED DOWN FEAR ME RAAAAAOOOOOORRRRR” guys. Ugh.
Winner: No one
Loser: The fans
The REAL Main Event of the Evening
Tables Match
Roxi Johnson vs The Generic Heel
Now THIS is what we’re talking about! Well, I mean, HALF of what we’re talking about. See, this match includes THE premier wrestling throughout ALL of wrestling, the Man of Four Holds, the Dropper of More Panties Than a Magic Mike Cast Party, THE GENERIC HEEL!
And then there’s Roxi.
Now, I KNOW that a lot of people look at Roxi and say, “Wow, Grandma! I LOVED watching you in black-and-white television matches back in the 50s!” and the ABSOLUTELY wear rose-tinted goggles and remember the good ol’ days when you could actually move, but do you realize how THICK you are? And not THICC, or whatever nonsense word neckbeards use to jerk off with these days, but the one with the letter K in it. Because FUCK ME you got fat. And slow. And probably dumb, as well. See, you HAVE to be dumb to think that you’ll get any further than even fifteen seconds into this tournament without be knocked out, because you drew ME, the Generic Heel.
Now, I know that you appreciate how I was the sperm donor for you and Kiera, and I appreciate all the picks of Nate you send to let me know how my spawn is doing, but that isn’t going to lessen the beating I am going to give you this week. I can’t let family ties be a bother, ya know! Though, I AM super sad that I never get included in your seventeen-tweet Woman Crush Wednesday posts that you do in order to stay relevant with other scantily clad women who think THAT is what gets you ahead in wrestling, because it seems half the WORLD gets on your lists and I don’t. That makes me super sad. Ya know, I have always wondered: Do you have those things saved on a doc or something and just copy/paste them every week? Man, that’s shitty.
Man, you are shit.
“BUT I WAS DLKFJSDLFJK WORLD CHAMPION AND I WAS CHAMP HERE AND I-”
So was a freakin’ cockroach. Here’s the dealio, Tubby:
The Disciples of Lucha brought me here...BEGGED ME TO COME HERE...because their dead federation needed to be saved. It needed someone with GRAVITAS. It needed someone with CHARISMA. And considering that they have employed people like Shelley Silver, Kenzie Rydell, O-Goddamn-TAKI, and freakin’ van de Roost, it is clear that they are desperately in need of me to win this tournament, beat whatever poor chump is champ, and breath new life into their company. Which is why they have placed me against you in the opening round.
I’m bigger than you...yet also still somehow thinner...I don’t know how your fatass broke the space/time continuum and laws of physics and anatomy like that, but you did. I’m stronger than you. I have more titles than you. I have more moves than you. I know more styles and techniques than you. And I don’t need to pander and flirt with hot chicks online like you in order to find relevance in this business or worth as a person. I don’t need to be everything that is wrong and shitty with our sport as it is today like you do.
I am going to beat you so bad that you are going to slide back into obscurity where you belong and go back to only being around once a week in order to help some neckbeards get off by flooding their timeline with underwear pics. I am going to bury you so deep that you’ll give up on wrestling (again!) until some other women’s fed comes up that needs shitty promotional videos to fill out the undercard. I’m going to beat you clean in the middle so soundly that you are going to crawl to me on your hands and knees, tears streaming from your eyes, and thank me for giving you a lesson in wrestling so profound that you could die right that moment and feel complete.
Because that’s what I do, sugar. I make examples out of half-developed pieces of cardboard eye candy like you for the rest of the world to see.
See ya around.