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| Wax, wicks, and fire.; Kinda like that band, but not at all. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 6 2005, 10:03 PM (54 Views) | |
| Minister Wighty | Mar 6 2005, 10:03 PM Post #1 |
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Opossum Queen of FIW
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We are in darkness. Well, dimness. A collection of red candles set a dull glow about the unidentifiable room as the soft sound of bare feet padding on concrete slinks in from the right. The owner of those sounds happens to be the Sex Machine Gun, Bill Kuriyama. He's wearing his in-ring samurai pants, though the design seems to have changed a bit. They're now white, with varying degrees of red and black triabl designs running up the legs in mimicry of Tier's skirt pattern. Bill warms his hands over the flames, then turns to face the camera, shadows cast across his face. BK: I know I haven't said much lately... been too busy training. Hell, I even blew off 'ol Toby, and that don't happen often. Honestly, though, Bill Kuriyama's found his mind occupied with more important things. Bill stops in the middle of his words and looks around. He spreads his arms wide and Randy Orton-ish. BK: Like the candles? I thought they were appropriate, what with Samael's little speil. They smell like apple pie, too, which is a helluva lot better than the dog crap stink of this country. Bill smirks wickedly, knowing full well he just riled up a few Mexicans who viva la raza. BK: So where was I? Ahhhh yeah. More important things. What could be more important than wrestling promos? Than making fun of Toby and the tutti-fruities tryin' to take me down this week? Aside from training, it's this new philosophy I've got in my head. See, Bill Kuriyama used to be all about the "all for me" approach. Just be cocky as hell and back it up, and when you win, you win. Only problem is, I've found myself losing. I've found myself at the mercy of those who should get on their knees and lick my boots. ME! The MAN! The greatest goddamn wrestler on this good green-ness! Bill stops jabbing himself in the pec to accentuate his point, but the seriousness doesn't leave his young face. BK: I've been reading FIW.com's official message board when I've got a few minutes. Keepin' up on my fan base. A lotta you so-called "wrestling experts" out there think Bill Kuriyama's gone soft. Become too tainted with love to see the gold in front of his face. You couldn't BE more wrong. It's not fluffy pink floaty hearts that cloud these eyes. No, no. I see this world painted... RED. Bill growls out his last word. Have we heard Bill growl before? I don't think so. BK: Red is Bill Kuriyama's new color, y'see? Most of you jackknobs haven't noticed, but I've got a little theme groovin' on here. Silver when I first came into this fed, to show some FIW pride. Gold when Bill Kuriyama started actin' like the champion he is. Now? Red. Why red? The color of blood. The color of rage. The color of revenge. The color of another "R"-word... Bill looks off to the side, waiting a tick for the folks watching at home to put two and two together, get a big crimson four and gasp. BK: Things have changed in here, Lobo. Bill points to his temple with a long index finger. BK: My mindset is different. I'm no longer fighting off a new up-and-comer. I'm fighting to reach the TOP! You, Lobo, are a stepping stone. This TITLE is a stepping stone. Every single teat-suckin' babyface, every pointless piece of gold I have to jam my boot on top of to climb to that Dual Crown... is below me. Bill shakes his head. BK: But here I am talkin' in the future when I need to be focused on the now. Don't think I'm gonna just hand you this title 'cuz I want somethin' more. No, Lobo Loco, you and I are gonna tango again. This time the field of battle is a tag-team match, Sam Kinloch at my side, a person I've trained with. A person I've beaten. A person I know inside, outside, upside, backside, on the flipside, and wrong-ways-out. What've you got? A former Openweighter clinging to the threads of long-lost glory? A brainpanned metalhead playing with candles in the dark? A man who thinks his exertion of will over the tiniest flame makes him mister bigshot? Bill moves his arm and pinches off the white luminsecent teardrop from atop the wick. He moves his hand to another candle, and kills another, and another, and another. BK: Your tag partner is dellusional, and even you've spent your time in Mexico mouthing off to the lucha tradition. Spent your time chasin' Margaritaville and gettin' tarot readings. I've been training. Sam's been training. Mind, body, and spirit. You should've taken that Lifetime Achievement title when you had the chance, Lobo. Things are about to get cut very short. Bill paces his way around the room and the camera pulls back to reveal that the array of candles in the center of our screen are positioned on a small table. He walks around the table and stands in front of it, backlit by the dancing flames. BK: Your time isn't in this match, though, Lobo. I'll wound you and leave you to think on your bleeding sores until next we meet. The next chance I'll give you to attempt at my gold. The last chance. We're opening up on the final act, and it seems you're still without a script... Bill shrugs, then leans forward, exposing another table (damn this is a big room) full of candles (damn, that's a lot of candles!) and sets a frank look on his face. BK: I've said it before, Lobe. You and I? We're not so different. We're both very sure of ourselves. We both don't need the adoration of the fans to feul us on like so many other useless "talents". And you and I both are part of the start of our own personal revolutions. But all this aside? You and I have... unfinished business. Bill taps the table with his fingertips in a final manner. He stands straigt and swivels to leave, keeping his eyes on the camera, on Lobo watching out in TV Land. BK: See you Tuesday. Fade. |
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7:06 PM Jul 11
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7:06 PM Jul 11