Post by King Richius on Jul 29, 2016 15:56:44 GMT -5
Defiance RP - Down and Downer
featuring Frank Lynn
Minneapolis, MN : July 13, 2016 : after Exodus
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I said a lot of sh*t before the tag title match about how great the Thunderbirds are and promised that we would make an example of Drakz and Joshua Dean. I swore loud and long about the coward and the fool being easy pickings for the Thunderbirds. I swore that we would take the belts and be the vanguard of change in the WFWF. I was wrong.
The Thunderbirds gave Drakz and Dean all the fight they could handle but we didn’t get the job done. Before the match, the Thunderbirds and the champs both promised to walk out champs. The champs kept their promise. The Thunderbirds didn’t. I didn’t even walk out. Mike Jette carried me out on his shoulders like yesterday’s trash.
I could go crazy after this loss. I could spew bile and venom at anyone and everyone. I could make even more brasher and bolder statements than before promising vengeance upon those who wronged me. But who would believe me? Why should they? I’m the new poster boy for epic fail. I aimed for the stars but fizzled out while still on the launching pad. “Houston, we have a problem.”
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I should eat my humble pie with a smile on my face. Go back to the gym, work harder, get better, and wait for my turn. Don’t try to be a roaring lion. Settle for being a timid field mouse who is lucky to live amongst the real lions of the WFWF. Jerk that curtain and learn to love the taste of j*zz because that is all I am good for.
I overstepped my role. I should fly under the radar taking whatever minor victories over minor opponents in minor matches I can get and then get out of the way of the big boys, the stars the fans actually paid their money to see. Be happy when I’m not in the designated piss break match. Smile at the one moron in the cheap seats who actually bought a “Fearless” Frank Lynn t-shirt.
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
Don’t hold your breath waiting for one. I won’t apologize for playing the game. I tried to climb the mountain. I fell. At least I tried. That’s the thing about success - you can’t succeed if you don’t try but that also means you may fail. I will get back up, brush myself off, and try again. I regret nothing.
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I don’t owe you sh*t.
———
Boston, MA : July 15, 2016 : two days after Exodus
After Exodus was over, Frank caught a red-eye flight back to Boston, awake for every uncomfortable second of the flight because he kept going over the match in his head. The Thunderbirds had been so close. The brass ring had been right there waiting for them to grab it but they couldn’t hold on. Where had it gone wrong? What could they have done differently?
Once the plane arrives in Boston he makes his way though baggage claim, takes a cab to his apartment, and crashes hard sleeping well into the next afternoon.
After he finally wakes up, he checks his voicemail. No messages. Not one attempt to console him for the loss or cheer him up with optimistic words about “next time champ.” Not even a short “I love you. See you soon.” from Becky.
Frank tries calling everyone but all he gets is voicemail. He leaves a few half-hearted messages: “I’m back. Call me.” No one returns his calls.
Another day passes and still no word from anybody. He calls them at their jobs but they haven’t shown up in two days. Frank gets worried and goes by each of their homes. No one answers their door. Paulie hadn’t been to his gym leaving his fighters to fend for themselves. Frank checks his mother’s house last. He has a key for emergencies so when his mother doesn’t answer, he uses it to let himself in.
He takes three steps into the house. Becky, Ricky, and Jimmy are slumped on the couch. His mother is sprawled on the floor halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Paulie is also lying on the floor in front of the television. Each one has a single bullet hole in their heads. Paulie has two more bullet holes and is surrounded by a pool of congealed blood.
Frank collapses to his knees and screams.
The rest is a blur. He called 911 but has no memory of what he said. He couldn’t tell you how long it took for the police to arrive or what questions they asked when they got there nor what answers he gave. He was numb by the time he saw the neighbors gathering in increasing numbers as more vehicles with flashing lights invaded their quiet neighborhood. The police recognized him as something of a celebrity so they got him away from the scene before the news crews showed up.
He watched the rest on the evening news. His connection to the people in the house didn’t come up. It would take the news vultures another day to make the connection and try to get comments from him. For the next two days he greeted people with No comment instead of hello.
———
Boston, MA : July 22, 2016
Frank stands in front of his mother’s house. The hysteria over the quintuple murders has died down, replaced by some fresher tragedy. America’s short attention span theater at its finest. At least Frank could go out in public again.
He isn't sure why he came back to the house. It’s not like his mother would be on the porch waving cheerily and telling him everybody was waiting inside. One second he wants to go inside and stay there forever. The next second he wants to burn it to the ground and never look back.
Everyone who mattered to him is dead.
They never knew what hit them. That’s what the police detective said. He said it had happened so fast that none of them felt any pain as if that was supposed to comfort Frank somehow. It was a professional hit but the police had no idea which of the five victims was the actual target. The last thing the detective had said was that the likelihood of identifying and catching the killers was less than zero. He offered Frank police protection just in case the killers came after him but Frank declined. Frank didn’t think a few cops would stop these killers if they really wanted him dead.
His black suit is wrinkled from five funerals in three days and smells of body odor because three of the funerals had been in churches that were too hot so he sweated through the entire service. The only thing he hates more than wearing the suit is having paying for it to be dry cleaned.
F*ck!
Frank rips the suit off right there on the sidewalk. He chucks it into one of the neighbors’ trash cans. He pulls a t-shirt and jeans out of his bag in his cars’ trunk, puts them on, and gets into his car. He pulls into the street and immediately stalls the car. It’s kind of hard to pay attention to something as mundane as driving when your world had been turned into a giant ball of sh*t.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! Hey assh*le, get out of the f*cking way!
The impatient man leaning far too hard and far too long on his horn doesn’t know who is driving the stalled car blocking the narrow side street. Much to his later regret, he is about to find out.
Frank slowly gets out of his car, walks to the driver side window of the car, reaches in putting his hand behind the man’s head, and smashes his face into the steering wheel… again… and again… and again… and again…
The man slumps over the steering wheel, his forehead pressing the horn button while his broken nose sprays blood everywhere. Frank pulls his head back so the horn would shut the f*ck up.
Did you have something you wanted to say to me? No? Taking a nap, eh? Really shouldn’t do that in the middle of the road. It’s not safe.
Frank calmly walks back to his car, gets in, starts it up, and drives away. In the back seat is a pet carrier and inside that pet carrier is Doctor Claw, a two year old orange tabby. He is Becky’s cat… no, he was Becky’s cat. Referring to Becky or any of them in the past tense is the hardest part. As for Doctor Claw, he is Frank’s cat now, a last present from Becky via her parents.
On the way back to his apartment, he stops at a pet store to get food, litter, and other supplies for Doctor Claw. Then he goes to the liquor store and buys a bottle of tequila. Nobody asked about his blood-soaked t-shirt which meant nobody else got hurt that night. Finally, he drives to his apartment. He goes inside not bothering to turn on the lights, puts the tequila on the coffee table, and releases Doctor Claw from his portable prison to explore his new home.
He picks up the phone and calls Mike Jette.
Hello.
It’s Frank.
What’s up Frank?
Everybody dies. Parents. Friends. Lovers. They all die.
Whoa, hold on. What’s going on?
At Defiance. Leeroy Jenkins and Danté Brooks. They are in our way. They are next to die. Everybody dies.
Frank hangs up before Mike can say anything else. He turns off the phone. There is nothing else he wants to say to anybody tonight and there is nothing anybody can say that he wants to hear.
He sits in the dark and stares at the bottle of tequila contemplating drinking himself into oblivion and staying that way for a very long time. The bottle stares back at him. Never get into a staring contest with an inanimate object. You will lose.
Half a bottle of tequila later Frank falls asleep on the couch with Doctor Claw curled up next to him.
When he wakes up the next morning, the half empty bottle of tequila is still staring at him. Doctor Claw is pacing in the kitchen near his empty food and water bowls, stopping every so often to stare at Frank. The world has a cruel way of forcing choices on you when you don’t want to make them.
F*ck!
Frank picks up the bottle and throws it out the window. It smashes on a car down below setting off the car alarm. He shuts the window reducing the sound to a tolerable level. Doctor Claw is still staring at him.
You like bacon and eggs?
———
Oklahoma City, OK : Defiance
It is Frank’s turn to record his Defiance promo. Frank and the camera man are the only people in the studio.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks Ricky.
My name isn’t Ricky.
Force of habit.
Are you going to talk about… you know… the murders?
Hell no. I’m going to put on my best game face and lie my ass off about how good things are. I can’t show any weakness, particularly after the loss at Exodus.
The camera man starts recording. Frank takes several deep breaths before unleashing his scripted promo.
The Thunderbirds versus two no name f*cks making their WFWF debuts at Defiance. Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me. After our loss in the MAIN EVENT tag title match at Exodus I said that the Thunderbirds would not settle for being curtain jerking wannabes just happy to be on the card collecting a paycheck yet here we are in the opening match that nobody gives a damn about. Look, it’s the Thunderbirds versus two guys nobody has ever heard of… time to go to the bathroom. Lila Sleater or one of her nameless minions has a perverse sense of humor in sending the Thunderbirds back to the bottom after our failed attempt to claim the tag titles. F*ck you assh*le. I’ll find out who booked us in this bullsh*t match and make you pay for disrespecting the Thunderbirds.
Another irony not lost on me is that the Thunderbirds were in the exact same position at Exodus as our opponents will be at Defiance. We were the unknown upstart rookies trying to make a name for ourselves. Now the Thunderbirds are the veterans in the match and our opponents are the rookies trying to make a name at our expense. Well boys, to borrow a phrase from that son of a bitch Drakz: You are f*cked! The Thunderbirds will bounce back from the loss at Exodus, return to our winning ways, and get another shot at the tag titles… a shot we won’t let go to waste. Those belts will be ours.
So who the hell are the two unlucky bastards that have to face the Thunderbirds at Defiance? Leeroy Jenkins and Danté Brooks? Time to do a little digging.
Let’s start with Leeroy Jenkins. First off, he is an internet legend amongst World of Warcraft players as being the guy who charged into a boss fight while the rest of his raiding party wasn’t ready resulting in a historic wipe. In English, that means he got everybody killed. That is bad news for you Mr. Brooks. You sure you want to go into a match with him as your partner? Actually, I’m pretty sure you aren’t that Leeroy Jenkins because you don’t look smart enough to use a computer. You look like some tattooed white trash dumbass that is usually seen resisting arrest on Cops.
You are also a multiple Tri County Fair wrestling champion. Big f*cking deal. That puts you in the same class as Uncle Henry’s prize pig and Aunt Martha’s blue ribbon winning apple pies. Quick reminder: I am a world ranked MMA fighter. That is WORLD as in everybody on the f*cking planet including all the inbred pieces of sh*t in whatever three counties make up your Tri County fair. I’m sure your high school and Tri County wrestling experience will be good for about 5 seconds before you start pissing your pants at the thought of what I am doing to you. Here’s a tip: you might want to give yourself an enema before the match because I will twist you up so bad your head ends up stuck in your own ass.
Up next is Danté Brooks. About all I could find out is that he is some lame f*ck from West Philly who whines about losing his father when he was 13. Ooh, so f*cking tragic. Except it’s not. Don’t expect me to give two sh*ts because you had a father for 13 more years than I did. Hell, maybe he jumped in front of a bullet because you were an incredible disappointment and he couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever. Life sucks and then you die. Get over it.
I found a photo of Danté Brooks. The first thing I thought was “Are you f*cking kidding me?” What I saw was a scrawny little b*tch trying to look tough. Seriously, I hope that photo is from your 15th birthday and you’ve grown a lot since then. If not, I am worried that Mike Jette and I will literally break you in half during our match. You look like somebody threw some wrestling gear on Charlie Brown’s pathetic Christmas tree. If I sneeze on you, you will fall right over with a broken back. If I kick you in the head, it may just pop right off like a Rock’Em Sock’Em robot.
Are you sure you signed up for the right line of work? Maybe you got confused and thought the WFWF is some E-Sports league where you play a wrestler in a video game against other scrawny pimply faced kids. It’s not. You are about to be in a very real fight against two men who are going to kick your ass.
So my research was a big fat waste of time. All I learned is that Jenkins and Brooks are two wannabes on the fast track to never weres. The match was booked so the Thunderbirds will take care of business. We would prefer getting revenge on Drakz and Dean for what they did to us at Exodus but you two will have to do. That’s real bad news for the two of you because Mike and I want to do some nasty, twisted, demented, f*cked up, destructive sh*t to Drakz and Dean - the kind of sh*t that is usually preceded by a warning that it could be “too violent and graphic for some viewers.” Don’t worry, the paramedics will be ready to put you back together after we break you.
There is championship gold in the Thunderbirds future. It’s just going to take a little longer than we had hoped to get it. We deserve another title shot so losing is not an option. We have to beat you because you are in the way. I once told Mantis Toboggan and Wilbur Richardson to get out of our way or get run over. I’m not giving the two of you the option to get out of the way. Prepare to get run over. The Thunderbirds have to destroy you as a warning to all others who would get in our way: we are coming for the tag team titles.
Welcome to the WFWF. I hope you survive the experience. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t.
Thunderbirds are go!
———
featuring Frank Lynn
Minneapolis, MN : July 13, 2016 : after Exodus
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I said a lot of sh*t before the tag title match about how great the Thunderbirds are and promised that we would make an example of Drakz and Joshua Dean. I swore loud and long about the coward and the fool being easy pickings for the Thunderbirds. I swore that we would take the belts and be the vanguard of change in the WFWF. I was wrong.
The Thunderbirds gave Drakz and Dean all the fight they could handle but we didn’t get the job done. Before the match, the Thunderbirds and the champs both promised to walk out champs. The champs kept their promise. The Thunderbirds didn’t. I didn’t even walk out. Mike Jette carried me out on his shoulders like yesterday’s trash.
I could go crazy after this loss. I could spew bile and venom at anyone and everyone. I could make even more brasher and bolder statements than before promising vengeance upon those who wronged me. But who would believe me? Why should they? I’m the new poster boy for epic fail. I aimed for the stars but fizzled out while still on the launching pad. “Houston, we have a problem.”
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I should eat my humble pie with a smile on my face. Go back to the gym, work harder, get better, and wait for my turn. Don’t try to be a roaring lion. Settle for being a timid field mouse who is lucky to live amongst the real lions of the WFWF. Jerk that curtain and learn to love the taste of j*zz because that is all I am good for.
I overstepped my role. I should fly under the radar taking whatever minor victories over minor opponents in minor matches I can get and then get out of the way of the big boys, the stars the fans actually paid their money to see. Be happy when I’m not in the designated piss break match. Smile at the one moron in the cheap seats who actually bought a “Fearless” Frank Lynn t-shirt.
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
Don’t hold your breath waiting for one. I won’t apologize for playing the game. I tried to climb the mountain. I fell. At least I tried. That’s the thing about success - you can’t succeed if you don’t try but that also means you may fail. I will get back up, brush myself off, and try again. I regret nothing.
I bet you think I owe all of you an apology.
I don’t owe you sh*t.
———
Boston, MA : July 15, 2016 : two days after Exodus
After Exodus was over, Frank caught a red-eye flight back to Boston, awake for every uncomfortable second of the flight because he kept going over the match in his head. The Thunderbirds had been so close. The brass ring had been right there waiting for them to grab it but they couldn’t hold on. Where had it gone wrong? What could they have done differently?
Once the plane arrives in Boston he makes his way though baggage claim, takes a cab to his apartment, and crashes hard sleeping well into the next afternoon.
After he finally wakes up, he checks his voicemail. No messages. Not one attempt to console him for the loss or cheer him up with optimistic words about “next time champ.” Not even a short “I love you. See you soon.” from Becky.
Frank tries calling everyone but all he gets is voicemail. He leaves a few half-hearted messages: “I’m back. Call me.” No one returns his calls.
Another day passes and still no word from anybody. He calls them at their jobs but they haven’t shown up in two days. Frank gets worried and goes by each of their homes. No one answers their door. Paulie hadn’t been to his gym leaving his fighters to fend for themselves. Frank checks his mother’s house last. He has a key for emergencies so when his mother doesn’t answer, he uses it to let himself in.
He takes three steps into the house. Becky, Ricky, and Jimmy are slumped on the couch. His mother is sprawled on the floor halfway between the kitchen and the living room. Paulie is also lying on the floor in front of the television. Each one has a single bullet hole in their heads. Paulie has two more bullet holes and is surrounded by a pool of congealed blood.
Frank collapses to his knees and screams.
The rest is a blur. He called 911 but has no memory of what he said. He couldn’t tell you how long it took for the police to arrive or what questions they asked when they got there nor what answers he gave. He was numb by the time he saw the neighbors gathering in increasing numbers as more vehicles with flashing lights invaded their quiet neighborhood. The police recognized him as something of a celebrity so they got him away from the scene before the news crews showed up.
He watched the rest on the evening news. His connection to the people in the house didn’t come up. It would take the news vultures another day to make the connection and try to get comments from him. For the next two days he greeted people with No comment instead of hello.
———
Boston, MA : July 22, 2016
Frank stands in front of his mother’s house. The hysteria over the quintuple murders has died down, replaced by some fresher tragedy. America’s short attention span theater at its finest. At least Frank could go out in public again.
He isn't sure why he came back to the house. It’s not like his mother would be on the porch waving cheerily and telling him everybody was waiting inside. One second he wants to go inside and stay there forever. The next second he wants to burn it to the ground and never look back.
Everyone who mattered to him is dead.
They never knew what hit them. That’s what the police detective said. He said it had happened so fast that none of them felt any pain as if that was supposed to comfort Frank somehow. It was a professional hit but the police had no idea which of the five victims was the actual target. The last thing the detective had said was that the likelihood of identifying and catching the killers was less than zero. He offered Frank police protection just in case the killers came after him but Frank declined. Frank didn’t think a few cops would stop these killers if they really wanted him dead.
His black suit is wrinkled from five funerals in three days and smells of body odor because three of the funerals had been in churches that were too hot so he sweated through the entire service. The only thing he hates more than wearing the suit is having paying for it to be dry cleaned.
F*ck!
Frank rips the suit off right there on the sidewalk. He chucks it into one of the neighbors’ trash cans. He pulls a t-shirt and jeans out of his bag in his cars’ trunk, puts them on, and gets into his car. He pulls into the street and immediately stalls the car. It’s kind of hard to pay attention to something as mundane as driving when your world had been turned into a giant ball of sh*t.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! Hey assh*le, get out of the f*cking way!
The impatient man leaning far too hard and far too long on his horn doesn’t know who is driving the stalled car blocking the narrow side street. Much to his later regret, he is about to find out.
Frank slowly gets out of his car, walks to the driver side window of the car, reaches in putting his hand behind the man’s head, and smashes his face into the steering wheel… again… and again… and again… and again…
The man slumps over the steering wheel, his forehead pressing the horn button while his broken nose sprays blood everywhere. Frank pulls his head back so the horn would shut the f*ck up.
Did you have something you wanted to say to me? No? Taking a nap, eh? Really shouldn’t do that in the middle of the road. It’s not safe.
Frank calmly walks back to his car, gets in, starts it up, and drives away. In the back seat is a pet carrier and inside that pet carrier is Doctor Claw, a two year old orange tabby. He is Becky’s cat… no, he was Becky’s cat. Referring to Becky or any of them in the past tense is the hardest part. As for Doctor Claw, he is Frank’s cat now, a last present from Becky via her parents.
On the way back to his apartment, he stops at a pet store to get food, litter, and other supplies for Doctor Claw. Then he goes to the liquor store and buys a bottle of tequila. Nobody asked about his blood-soaked t-shirt which meant nobody else got hurt that night. Finally, he drives to his apartment. He goes inside not bothering to turn on the lights, puts the tequila on the coffee table, and releases Doctor Claw from his portable prison to explore his new home.
He picks up the phone and calls Mike Jette.
Hello.
It’s Frank.
What’s up Frank?
Everybody dies. Parents. Friends. Lovers. They all die.
Whoa, hold on. What’s going on?
At Defiance. Leeroy Jenkins and Danté Brooks. They are in our way. They are next to die. Everybody dies.
Frank hangs up before Mike can say anything else. He turns off the phone. There is nothing else he wants to say to anybody tonight and there is nothing anybody can say that he wants to hear.
He sits in the dark and stares at the bottle of tequila contemplating drinking himself into oblivion and staying that way for a very long time. The bottle stares back at him. Never get into a staring contest with an inanimate object. You will lose.
Half a bottle of tequila later Frank falls asleep on the couch with Doctor Claw curled up next to him.
When he wakes up the next morning, the half empty bottle of tequila is still staring at him. Doctor Claw is pacing in the kitchen near his empty food and water bowls, stopping every so often to stare at Frank. The world has a cruel way of forcing choices on you when you don’t want to make them.
F*ck!
Frank picks up the bottle and throws it out the window. It smashes on a car down below setting off the car alarm. He shuts the window reducing the sound to a tolerable level. Doctor Claw is still staring at him.
You like bacon and eggs?
———
Oklahoma City, OK : Defiance
It is Frank’s turn to record his Defiance promo. Frank and the camera man are the only people in the studio.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks Ricky.
My name isn’t Ricky.
Force of habit.
Are you going to talk about… you know… the murders?
Hell no. I’m going to put on my best game face and lie my ass off about how good things are. I can’t show any weakness, particularly after the loss at Exodus.
The camera man starts recording. Frank takes several deep breaths before unleashing his scripted promo.
The Thunderbirds versus two no name f*cks making their WFWF debuts at Defiance. Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me. After our loss in the MAIN EVENT tag title match at Exodus I said that the Thunderbirds would not settle for being curtain jerking wannabes just happy to be on the card collecting a paycheck yet here we are in the opening match that nobody gives a damn about. Look, it’s the Thunderbirds versus two guys nobody has ever heard of… time to go to the bathroom. Lila Sleater or one of her nameless minions has a perverse sense of humor in sending the Thunderbirds back to the bottom after our failed attempt to claim the tag titles. F*ck you assh*le. I’ll find out who booked us in this bullsh*t match and make you pay for disrespecting the Thunderbirds.
Another irony not lost on me is that the Thunderbirds were in the exact same position at Exodus as our opponents will be at Defiance. We were the unknown upstart rookies trying to make a name for ourselves. Now the Thunderbirds are the veterans in the match and our opponents are the rookies trying to make a name at our expense. Well boys, to borrow a phrase from that son of a bitch Drakz: You are f*cked! The Thunderbirds will bounce back from the loss at Exodus, return to our winning ways, and get another shot at the tag titles… a shot we won’t let go to waste. Those belts will be ours.
So who the hell are the two unlucky bastards that have to face the Thunderbirds at Defiance? Leeroy Jenkins and Danté Brooks? Time to do a little digging.
Let’s start with Leeroy Jenkins. First off, he is an internet legend amongst World of Warcraft players as being the guy who charged into a boss fight while the rest of his raiding party wasn’t ready resulting in a historic wipe. In English, that means he got everybody killed. That is bad news for you Mr. Brooks. You sure you want to go into a match with him as your partner? Actually, I’m pretty sure you aren’t that Leeroy Jenkins because you don’t look smart enough to use a computer. You look like some tattooed white trash dumbass that is usually seen resisting arrest on Cops.
You are also a multiple Tri County Fair wrestling champion. Big f*cking deal. That puts you in the same class as Uncle Henry’s prize pig and Aunt Martha’s blue ribbon winning apple pies. Quick reminder: I am a world ranked MMA fighter. That is WORLD as in everybody on the f*cking planet including all the inbred pieces of sh*t in whatever three counties make up your Tri County fair. I’m sure your high school and Tri County wrestling experience will be good for about 5 seconds before you start pissing your pants at the thought of what I am doing to you. Here’s a tip: you might want to give yourself an enema before the match because I will twist you up so bad your head ends up stuck in your own ass.
Up next is Danté Brooks. About all I could find out is that he is some lame f*ck from West Philly who whines about losing his father when he was 13. Ooh, so f*cking tragic. Except it’s not. Don’t expect me to give two sh*ts because you had a father for 13 more years than I did. Hell, maybe he jumped in front of a bullet because you were an incredible disappointment and he couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever. Life sucks and then you die. Get over it.
I found a photo of Danté Brooks. The first thing I thought was “Are you f*cking kidding me?” What I saw was a scrawny little b*tch trying to look tough. Seriously, I hope that photo is from your 15th birthday and you’ve grown a lot since then. If not, I am worried that Mike Jette and I will literally break you in half during our match. You look like somebody threw some wrestling gear on Charlie Brown’s pathetic Christmas tree. If I sneeze on you, you will fall right over with a broken back. If I kick you in the head, it may just pop right off like a Rock’Em Sock’Em robot.
Are you sure you signed up for the right line of work? Maybe you got confused and thought the WFWF is some E-Sports league where you play a wrestler in a video game against other scrawny pimply faced kids. It’s not. You are about to be in a very real fight against two men who are going to kick your ass.
So my research was a big fat waste of time. All I learned is that Jenkins and Brooks are two wannabes on the fast track to never weres. The match was booked so the Thunderbirds will take care of business. We would prefer getting revenge on Drakz and Dean for what they did to us at Exodus but you two will have to do. That’s real bad news for the two of you because Mike and I want to do some nasty, twisted, demented, f*cked up, destructive sh*t to Drakz and Dean - the kind of sh*t that is usually preceded by a warning that it could be “too violent and graphic for some viewers.” Don’t worry, the paramedics will be ready to put you back together after we break you.
There is championship gold in the Thunderbirds future. It’s just going to take a little longer than we had hoped to get it. We deserve another title shot so losing is not an option. We have to beat you because you are in the way. I once told Mantis Toboggan and Wilbur Richardson to get out of our way or get run over. I’m not giving the two of you the option to get out of the way. Prepare to get run over. The Thunderbirds have to destroy you as a warning to all others who would get in our way: we are coming for the tag team titles.
Welcome to the WFWF. I hope you survive the experience. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t.
Thunderbirds are go!
———
Notes:
Part 1 of a 4 part arc that reboots Frank Lynn heading into SuperBrawl.
I dont know good luck 
