CONTENT

Title: Look me up.
Featuring: Eric Dane
Date: 10.07.15
Location: In front of the Gauntlet
Show: Victory XXXIX

It’s been almost a month and I still catch myself avoiding mirrors. I haven’t been near a monitor, and I’m certainly not checking out the reflective fronts of my shades. I can’t exactly explain what went down for that week in Rio, but I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna relapse out of sheer carelessness.

Needless to say, I’ve been somewhat off the grid.

It’s been a fucked up couple of weeks. My boy Ty’s decided to go freestyle, meaning he doesn’t have an active contract and won’t be performing any time soon in the UTA. Greer’s doing his own thing now, trying to reestablish himself as a singles guy, you know because these idiots in UTA don’t have the good sense it takes to youtube some of his pre-Team Danger work because they figure anything that didn’t happen in the last six months isn’t relevant.

Fuck outta here with that simple shit.

So anyway, I don’t know what’s going on with Team Danger as a unit. Call it a flux, if you will. We’ve still got that thing with Sean Jackson, but I’m starting to think that he thinks he’s above a back alley ass kickin’ based solely on how little he seems to want us around. Hey man, I get it, ya don’t wanna look weak in front of your dozens of fans.

And that’s all well and good.

Just don’t come crying to me when you get caught on the middle of a Devil’s Threeway LFB and CBR, nah’mean? If Sean wants the help that he’s paid for, he’ll get his head out of his own ass and he’ll come back to me at Victory and avail himself to my planning and scheming, otherwise it’s gonna be an “if” and a “when” thing when I can be bothered to round up the boys and help out.

For example, “if” you’d have bothered to bring us to Cairo, “when” Jason Cashe showed up and dropped you on your head, we’d have been there to either stop him before he got to you, or kick his shit in afterwards. See how that works?

Your fault.

As far as I’m concerned, our deal still stands.

Take that into consideration.

Meanwhile, back in Africa where I had a week off for reasons unknown, I also got a visit from this guy calling himself Michael Lorenzo. Apparently he’s the something of something something, and that gives him the right to call himself the boss.

Well, Cecilworth Farthington calls himself the boss on Wrestleshow, so, take that for what it’s worth. I’ll say this about Lorenzo, though, he seems to at least have his finger on the pulse when it comes to title shots. First Bobby Dean gets awarded his Wildfire shot, and then I’m awarded my very much past due World Title shot.

Except for that not that.

My shot comes with a caveat.

My shot comes if, and only if, I can Run the Gauntlet next week in jolly ol’ England-town. And that’s all well and good, but the guy didn’t tell me who I was against at the time. He let me chew on it for a couple of days, and of course I imagined the worst case scenario. I figured I’d have to prison-rape my way through the entirety of Dynasty before getting my shot, starting from Mikey Unlikely’s virgin suburban asshole all the way through CBR’s well worn and specially oiled catcher's mitt of an asspussy.

Turns out, they’re still being somewhat serious about this Brand Split business, and I won’t be practicing my Incarceration Upkeep Tactics on what’s left of Dynasty on my way to the World Title.

So then I figured maybe it’d be some of Victory’s heavy hitters, led of course by Cayle Murray who insists that he and I are going to “have some words” Monday night in London. Apparently he has some sort of issue with how he lost in the Main Event in Africa and he’s got it stuck in his craw that it’s my fault.

That’s the story of my goddamned life, yanno?

Useless little youngboy whelps crying foul everytime something happens and things don’t go their way. Who’s fault is it you weren’t prepared, Cayle? Who’s fault is it that you didn’t understand the parameters of the rules in front of you?

Fatal Four Way means No Disqualification.

Meaning you lost. Clean. Deal with it.

But lemme stick a pin in that, because when the runsheets finally came in it wasn’t Cayle Murray and a group of do-gooders that’d be standing in my Path to Exaltation, in fact if I’m not mistaken Cayle’s got the unenviable task of attempting to make Marie Van Claudio look like a credible and viable competitor.

Sorry bro. And I mean that. No one should be forced into that.

So who is the impenetrable wall that I have to go over, under, or through to be considered worthy of a World Title shot? Who are the hounds of war set up to keep me from reaching my goals? What are the names of those would be victims standing in my way?

Skylar Montgomery
Jack Hunter
B.R. Ellis
Amy Harrison

I find myself unsure of how exactly to take this. Am I supposed to take it seriously? I mean, really? And if I am supposed to take this seriously, how am I then supposed to take seriously the man who booked the match, Michael Lorenzo?

This is where it starts to get a bit messy.

However, I would like to have the attention of our esteemed “champion” for just a moment as I feel like the point I’m about to make could fly right over his head if I don’t speak slowly and make sure he has time to fully assimilate the data.

Flame-boy, this is your cue. Put on your thinking cap and get serious for a minute while I blow your mind. You see, I know you think you’ve got the right people in your pocket. I know you’ve got people placed all throughout the organization, in and around the office, and are generally taken care of when it comes to threats like me.

However.

It sure looks to me that at the very least, Michael Lorenzo is tired of seeing you as the face of our company. You hear that Champ? The sound of hundreds of thousands of remotes flipping the channel when you show up hasn’t fallen on deaf ears, and now the Office wants you out.

And that’s where I come in.

Don’t let me get ahead of myself, though. There is the matter of the Junior Varsity gauntlet crew. No matter what I do or say, I’ll have to get through them before I make my way to you, Whitey. Christ, I can’t even say that with a straight face, these kids and that old man are fuckin’ dead meat. I don’t know who they pissed off, but I’m happy to collect the debt.

But seriously, if somebody in production wants to shave some time off the show, maybe add in another entertaining segment like a live episode of Chillin’ with Colt, we could just as easily make this a handicapped match.

I mean come on, how bad is it when between the four of them B.R. Ellis of all people is the leader in both experience and actual in-ring talent? And what’s that little kid Montgomery gonna do, try and scare me off with Light Tubes? Is Amy Harrison gonna yoga me to death?

WILL I BE STREET FIGHTED?

No, I won’t. One by one, or all at once, I’ll knock ‘em the fuck out, drop ‘em on their fuckin’ heads, pin ‘em to the mat, and kick ‘em to the fuckin’ curb. It’ll be just like The Chamber, only with less body mass, less talent, and significantly less iron and steel standing between myself and the Glory of Championship gold.

I’d say “with less forks,” but you know I can’t promise that.

Doesn’t matter what the plan is going in, though. All that matters is that Eric Dane is once again on the cusp of a World Championship, the current champion can’t shake in his boots fast enough to keep from pissing himself waiting for it to happen, and the opposition stacked in front of me can’t wait to be trampled to the ground.

Next Monday’s gonna be a good day.

For me, anyhow. Everybody else? Not so much.

Look me up in London, I’ll be the guy with the tallest glass of scotch in the room, and the biggest grin on his face. You won’t be able to miss me if you try.



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