Post by King Richius on Oct 26, 2016 14:57:33 GMT -5
Superbrawl RP - Dance with the Devil
featuring Frank Lynn
I KNOW I can beat you.
Cambridge, MA : Oct. 10, 2016
Frank Lynn sits behind the desk in Abraham Templeton’s Legacy Gym office. They had just finished a brief meeting where Abe gave him all the good news regarding his recent investment. The new servers were in place along with a dedicated fiber line. Internet subscriptions were on the rise. Six international stars had been signed for the next year: two from Japan, two from Canada, and two from Mexico. Perhaps most surprising news was an offer from the local Comcast sports network to broadcast a weekly one hour LPW show.
Abraham had been worried about Frank’s incident with Brick Harrison at Fall Brawl ’16 but it had actually increased interest and attendance at subsequent LPW events. People wanted to see what insanity, or Lynn-sanity as they were calling it on Twitter, would happen next between the LPW wrestlers and the new owner & resident lunatic.
Frank had a smile on his face as he put a stack of LPW paperwork into his bag and pulled out a different set of papers. He flashed back to Exodus, the night everything changed for him. He hadn’t given any thought to the overtures Joshua Dean had made that night and ensuing events assured that he quickly forgot about it. Only the persistent pestering by a lawyer he had hired after Dewey, Chedum, and Howe had terminated their contract with him brought it back to his attention.
Frank didn’t pretend to understand the legalese of the official contract, but his new lawyer had translated it into a much shorter version written in layman’s terms that he could understand. It was intriguing enough that he had decided to dance with the devil… if only the devil would get here. What was taking Dean so long? Frank had checked incoming flights to Logan International Airport and Dean’s flight had arrived on schedule. The trip from Logan to the Legacy Gym should not take this long. Was it possible for the devil to get lost?
Frank passed the time by watching one of his LPW matches on the TV in Abe’s office. He was enjoying the El Tigre Blanco vs Darryl Dixon match as it was one of his best, a twenty-five minute main event that told a good story and the fans, all 250 of them, were on the edge of their seats the entire time.
Frank was so into the match that he didn’t notice when the Franchise Joshua Dean walked into the office.
That White Tiger guy was really good. I wonder what happened to him.
Frank looks up, equally startled by Dean’s interruption and by his knowledge of his alter ego.
El Tigre Blanco was one of the best to ever work here at Legacy. Then he left. Nobody really knows why or where he went.
I’ve done my research. Don’t you find it odd that a top luchador never once appeared in Mexico?
He was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a tiger striped body suit. Best to leave it at that.
Frank reaches into the pocket of his jacket slung over the back of the chair and removes a bright yellow tennis ball. He puts his hand under the desk and starts squeezing the ball. Josh sees it all, sees the veins pop out on Frank’s forearm as he punishes the tennis ball.
Frank doesn’t care what Josh sees. He just wants Josh to drop the subject. He wants El Tigre Blanco forgotten so that he won’t have to deal with the Guerrilla Fighting goons coming after him for breach of contract, particularly now that he had a substantial pile of money for them to take from him. To Josh’s credit, he picks up on this and deftly switches topics.
Damn shame. He could go places in the WFWF. But you didn’t ask me here to talk about a disappearing luchador, did you?
No. What took you so long getting here? Bad directions?
Directions were fine. Traffic sucked. If you have to deal with that every day it explains a lot about you.
There’s only one rule for driving in Boston: “I have the right of way.” We’re all used to it.
Frank is avoiding the real purpose of the meeting with more small talk, something Josh picks up on but allows. Frank will have to eat his humble pie soon enough but at least Josh seems content to let it happen at the pace Frank chooses.
Care to tell me why you are trying to crush a tennis ball under the desk?
It’s no secret. I have anger issues. I’m seeing an anger management specialist who recommended this as a way to control my anger.
That’s good Frank, damn good. Some of your recent actions had me rethinking my original offer. Tell me more.
You want to learn all my secrets, eh? Sorry, I’m not going to give you ammunition to use against me later. Suffice it to say I’ve always had a short temper. The murders just amplified it and now I have to get it back under control. Dr. Nichols says I’m making good progress.
Josh sits across from Frank quietly taking it all in. Frank begrudgingly respected Dean as someone who was always watching and listening, cataloging every little bit of information he could about potential opponents. Frank was doing the same to Dean as well.
Frank assumed there was also interest in how he was dealing with his anger issues as they could complicate any working relationship. Frank takes Josh’s contemplative silence as a cue to carry on.
Allow me to ease some of your fears. Thanks to Abraham, I’ve smoothed over my differences with Brick Harrison. I apologized, which was sincere, and had to promise a special opportunity for him in LPW. He has potential so that is not much of a concession. Bottom line, it is over. No more bad press and no police involvement.
Glad to hear it. I don’t want a felon as a client.
Trust me, I don’t want to be a felon. That’s why I am getting counseling.
Frank continues to squeeze the tennis ball. Sitting here across from a man he has quickly grown to hate and yet now finds himself about to ask for help… that is eating him up inside. “Pride goeth before the fall” or some profound crap like that. Quoting proverbs won’t make this any easier on Frank.
And you try to crush a tennis ball any time you get angry? I guess that’s better than assaulting random people. Can I see it?
Frank tosses the ball across the desk to Joshua, taking another out of his jacket so he can keep on squeezing the crap out of something. Josh rolls the ball around in his hand. It is a normal tennis ball except for one thing: the name “LeeRoy Jenkins” has been written on it in bright red marker.
LeeRoy Jenkins, eh? Is that the counselors idea or yours?
Mine. I don’t know if he would approve but I don’t care.
So you are still hung up on the chair shot?
The chair shot and the beatdown that followed. Wouldn’t that get under your skin?
Maybe. Let me guess, you also have a Joshua Dean tennis ball somewhere?
Frank holds up the ball he is currently squeezing so Josh can clearly see his name in bright red letters.
Yep. I’m actually on my second Joshua Dean ball. I’m on my fourth Drakz ball if it matters to you.
Not really. How many Lila Sleaters?
Damn! Frank wonders if Dean somehow knows about his e-mail to Lila, one of his biggest mistakes since arriving in the WFWF. ”Fines, suspension, and even firing don’t scare me anymore. You need me more than I need you.” What the hell had he been thinking trying to threaten and blackmail the head booker of the WFWF?
None. Her face is on my dart board.
Ouch. What is it between you and her?
She’s a manipulating bitch. She has been playing me ever since I signed my WFWF contract.
She is trying to put on the best show possible.
By manipulating people.
It’s her job.
Which she enjoys a little too much. I won’t be manipulated anymore. That’s why we’re meeting today.
Is that so?
Frank notices a change in Josh’s tone and demeanor. Josh must sense that Frank is done beating around the bush. Josh knows the humble pie is about to be served and he is turning up the smug arrogance to make Frank as uncomfortable as possible. Frank wonders if Josh is testing him to see if he will snap again.
Yes. You made me an offer at Exodus. I’ve decided to accept.
Well well well. Finally seeing the light. You’re already good. I can make you better.
Don’t rub it in. I still don’t like you. I don’t think I will ever like you. But I am smart enough to see that working with you has benefits.
There’s that word - smart. I thought I was a dumbass.
Frank seethes internally as Josh continues to push his buttons. Was he really trying to find Frank’s breaking point or is it that his ego requires him to always get the last word.
If you think I really meant it then maybe you are a dumbass. That was wrestler promo talk, stupid macho posturing and attempts at mind games. The more I call you stupid, the better the chance you actually do something stupid in the match. Same reason I called Drakz a coward over and over. Maybe it would cause him to do something cowardly in the match that I could capitalize on.
Like having a drink thrown in your face, getting slammed through electrical equipment, handcuffed to the ring post, and beat unconscious by a chair? Didn’t work out so well for you.
I had to try. Live and learn.
So do you still think you can beat me?
For all his seemingly good intentions and good will, Josh just has to keep pushing. Frank notes that ego need of Josh’s for future reference. He would love to continue the verbal sparring but at this point it is becoming counter-productive. If he allowed Josh to puff his chest out one more time, maybe they could get on to the real business at hand.
No, I don’t think I can beat you. I KNOW I can beat you. But that is something for the future. Here in the present I… well that is…
Go on.
I…
You can say it.
I need your help.
That wasn’t so hard, now was it?
And there it is. Josh has managed to get the last word and Frank’s ego is intact because he knows that he took a dive. Frank was satisfied to let Josh have his hollow victory.
It is more important for Frank to learn from Joshua Dean, both the lessons Josh wants to teach him and those he won’t even realize Frank is learning just by observing him. For example, Frank just learned how to manipulate Joshua Dean by preying on his messiah complex. Josh really did want to save the WFWF one wrestler at a time.
Bastard. Yes, I need you. I am making mistakes. Not so much in the ring mind you. I have all the combat fighting skills I need to win any match I am in. I need you to help me navigate all the backstage crap. The damn manipulations that are always going on. And possibly repair my damaged reputation with the fans so marketing will get off my ass about slow merchandise sales.
Wrestling is not an easy business to break into. There are sharks swimming in these waters ready to feast on inexperienced rookies like you.
You are one of those sharks. That is why I am signing the contract. I’m placing my career in your hands. I don’t like you but I am trusting you to not use me as a tool for you to reach your goals. This is about me reaching my goals.
Josh leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head. His tone and demeanor change yet again and now it is more informal, like two co-workers chatting at the water cooler about a football game. Frank is almost positive that all of this was a test to see if Frank would snap and attack him. The counseling was working and Frank had kept his cool. Having passed the test, Josh now seems like he actually wants to be friends… or at least friendly-ish. Frank didn’t even realize that he had stopped squeezing the tennis ball until it dropped from his hand and bounced under the desk.
No more “macho posturing” Frank. I wanted to sign you because I saw potential. I still do. I’m not going to screw you over.
I almost believe you.
Give it time. Now, let’s get to it. You have an important match at SuperBrawl.
Damn right I do. I have to beat five men to win the Golden Opportunity. That’s a lot to prepare for.
Nothing you’ve been through before can prepare you for a six man match. I have my own six man match at SuperBrawl so I have a few thoughts on how we both can improve our chances if you want to hear them.
I’m all ears.
Frank listened intently to Joshua Dean’s words of wisdom but at the same time in the back of his head Charlie Daniels was playing a modified version of his classic song - in this version the Devil went north from Georgia looking for a soul to steal which he got when he won a duel with Frank Lynn.
———
Beware of Dog
Everybody has seen it - the picturesque house with the white picket fence and the sign on the gate that says Beware of Dog. You look over the fence and laying in the yard is a docile dog living up to the standard of Man’s Best Friend waiting for his master to come home so he can shower him or her with kisses. You think the sign is just for decoration and to avoid possible lawsuits from the US Postal Service when Fido tries to hump the mail carriers leg once too often. You approach the fence, sticking your hand out to get the dogs attention.
Thats when the sh*t hits the fan. The once cuddly, cute bundle of fur turns into a rabid beast lunging at you, lip drawn back revealing razor sharp teeth, saliva spraying everywhere, every one of its muscles visibly straining against its industrial strength steel chain leash as it tries to live out its favorite fantasy - ripping your throat out and drinking your blood just because it tastes good.
Not a pretty picture, is it? Norman Rockwell meets Stephen King. You may ask why is “Fearless” Frank Lynn pontificating about canines with bad attitudes? The answer should be obvious. I am that dog and you damn well should beware of me.
My friends will tell you. I can be as loyal and loving as man’s best friend when it comes to my friends. Everybody else is a different story. I don’t know you. I don’t like you, or probably won’t like you if I was inclined to get to know you which I’m not. And inside me dwells a rage monster that wants to rip your throat out and drink your blood.
The stories of my rage are spreading. Ask Mike Jette, who had the audacity to challenge me to a street fight and paid the price when I snapped. Ask Drakz about the time I took off from the top turnbuckle and flew through the air into the crowd to bring him down with a vicious SPAZ ATTACK. Ask LeeRoy Jenkins how it felt to have his back stretched out by my camel clutch. Ask Danté Brooks what it was like to get beat senseless by my unstoppable ground and pound attack. Ask Brick Harrison how it felt when I popped his shoulder out just because he said something I didn’t like.
I can’t deny the accusations. I don’t want to. I am guilty. I have a rage monster inside me. I need help controlling the beast. I am learning how to put a leash on it and build a fence to keep it contained. I haven’t appeared in any new viral videos beating up random people so it is working… somewhat. The rage monster is still strong and it still hungers. I can feel it struggling to get free.
That’s why being a WFWF wrestler is so good for me. I get paid to physically abuse my opponents. I can remove the leash, open the gate, and free the monster. Hell, people pay to see me do it. They cheer when the beast feeds. I will happily oblige because it is good therapy. Your suffering is the key to my well-being.
Superbrawl is going to be a very good night for me. Five opponents at once?! Thats five times the usual victims for the rage monster to feed upon. It is going to be a very therapeutic match. The beast will be satiated for long time afterwards.
You were warned. The sign is posted for all to see: Beware of Dog. It’s not my fault if you choose to ignore it.
———
Boston, MA : Oct. 17, 2016
Frank is awakened by the incessant ringing of his doorbell. Still half asleep, he goes to the door and buzzes whoever it is into the apartment building. Had he been completely awake he would have asked who it was first but that part of his brain was not functioning yet. For a very brief moment he thought it was Becky or Ricky coming to join him on his morning run but reality came crashing in as his brain continued the morning boot up process.
He makes a quick dash to the bathroom to splash water on his face while his visitor makes their way to his apartment. He barely has time to throw on a t-shirt and jeans before there is a knock at the door.
Frank looks through the peephole and sees a latino man he does not recognize.
Who is it?
An amigo, Señor Lynn. Please open the door. My business is with you, not your neighbors.
Frank checks that his home security system is in place: an old hockey stick propped against the wall next to the door. He opens the door.
Gracias señor. I am sorry to interrupt you so early.
Well you did. Get to the point please.
I am here to escort you to meet Señor Juan Carlos de Silva.
Who the hell is that?
Come with me and find out for yourself.
No thanks. I think we’re done now.
No, señor, we are not.
Frank starts to close the door when the man sticks a hand out and stops him. He pulls back his jacket with his other hand revealing a gun.
Por favor, señor. I insist. Señor Juan Carlos would be most displeased with me if you are harmed but he would be more displeased if I do not bring you to meet him.
F*ck me.
Frank looks at the hockey stick and regrets not getting an upgrade. An Uzi would be nice but he would settle for a quick starting chainsaw.
Frank, with the approval of his armed escort, takes a few minutes to properly wash up and put on some clean clothes before allowing himself to be led out of the building and into a luxurious limousine. The man had nothing more to say during the trip. He sits opposite Frank stone faced with one hand always near his gun.
So you want to talk about the weather? No? You’re the strong silent type, eh? I bet the chicks dig that.
Frank get no reaction so he watches and waits hoping for an opportunity to escape that never comes. Frank tries to be calm but he is pretty sure that he is about to die from a bullet to the head, just like the others did several months ago. He still has no idea why five people were assassinated in his mother’s living room and he has less idea why it is his turn now.
The drive takes 45 minutes thanks to Boston’s typical rush hour congestion. That’s what happens when all the streets are paved over cow paths from 250 years ago. The limousine enters Logan International through a side gate and heads towards a private jet sitting at the far outskirts of the busy airport. For better or worse, they were there. Time to meet Señor Juan Carlos de Silva. Time to meet his maker?
The man with the gun motions for Frank to exit the limousine, then motions again for Frank to go up the steps and inside the jet. The man with the gun remains on the tarmac. Frank reaches the top of the steps and turns to give the gunman one last look, actually looking for an opening but there is nowhere he can get to in less time than the gunman could shoot him down. In a final desperate display of bravado, he slips into his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.
I’ll be back. no reaction Get to the choppa! no reaction It’s not a tumor! no reaction… Frank continues in his normal voice You’re no fun.
Frank gives up trying to get a reaction from the gunman and cautiously steps into the jet. The inside is every bit as luxurious as the limousine, highlighted by a full champagne breakfast on a table by four of the most comfortable seats to ever see the inside of an airplane. Sitting in one of the seats is a man Frank assumes is Señor Juan Carlos de Silva.
He is of average height and build, tanned, clean shaven, short curly black hair that is graying slightly at the temples. He is wearing a cream colored linen suit over a powder blue shirt and brown Italian leather loafers with no socks. Complementing the outfit are top of the line RayBan sunglasses and a white fedora, both sitting on the table until such a time as de Silva decides to put them on and exit the plane. Frank does not see any weapons, unless you count a butter knife. He has a few more minutes to save his ass from whatever grisly fate de Silva has planned for him.
Juan Carlos returns the favor, checking out Frank in his trademark red t-shirt, black jeans, and tan hiking books; his leather jacket off and slung over his shoulder. Juan Carlos is just as stone-faced as his man outside so Frank has no idea what Juan Carlos is looking for or what he is thinking.
Hola Señor Lynn. You have nothing to be nervous about.
That’s not how I see it. An armed man comes to my door and tells me I WILL come meet you. So here I am. What the hell do you want?
There is no need for vulgarities señor. They are the crutch of the weak-minded. I know you are smarter than that. Please sit. Join me for some of this truly wonderful breakfast. The orange juice is fresh squeezed from oranges we picked up in Miami on our way here. From the tree to your lips in less than six hours.
Juan Carlos isn’t wrong, it is some of best orange juice Frank has ever tasted. At his hosts behest, Frank picks up one of the breakfast burritos and takes a bite. Again, it was the best of its kind he had ever tasted, worthy of a five star restaurant instead of a fast food chain most famous for causing rampant diarrhea. How strange to go to so much trouble for someone you are about to kill.
Thanks. Why shouldn’t I be f*cking nervous?
No more vulgarities, por favor. I won’t ask again. I know you have a college education. Stop acting like your hooligan wrestling counterparts who don’t know any better.
Fine. Why shouldn’t I be nervous? The five people who were closest to me get murdered. Several months later an armed man “invites” me to a mysterious meeting. Sounds like the perfect time to be nervous.
I apologize for Pablo. He sometimes takes my orders too literally. I am not here to hurt you. I know of the tragedy that happened to your mother and friends. I assure you, the man responsible is no threat to you.
Frank isn’t sure what to make of Juan Carlos. On the one hand he talks like a very dangerous man and pistol packing Pablo’s presence seems to back that up. On the other hand, he is treating Frank respectfully, almost friendly, and Frank finds strange comfort in that. Perhaps he wasn’t about to meet his maker after all?
That puts you one up on Boston’s finest. Why?
I want you to be safe and so you are. If you want, I can make you successful too.
I don’t need your help. You still haven’t answered my question. Why?
I do not offer my help because I think you need it. I offer my help because it is something I want to do.
Stop beating around the bush. Why did you bring me here?
I wanted to meet you, to help you…
Juan Carlos’ Brazilian accent changes into a perfectly natural Boston accent.
…because I, Juan Carlos de Silva, was born Thomas Francis McAvoy. (pause) I am your father.
To be continued…
———
Pasadena, CA : Superbrawl IX
Frank is in the studio a few days before Superbrawl to record his promo. Yet again, he is working with the same camera man as the past three shows so they have the routine down pat.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks not-Ricky.
Enough of this crap! I have a name! It is Stephen! Use it or I start f*cking up your promos! How would you like it if I tweak the audio so you sound like Alvin the Chipmunk?
A grim-faced Frank takes a few steps towards Stephen who starts to worry that he just made a huge mistake. As he gets closer, Frank grabs Stephen by the shoulders. Then he smiles from ear to ear and pats Stephen on his cheek.
Well damn not-Ricky. You grew a pair. I’m impressed. So are you ready to record this promo… Stephen?
And on that note Stephen lets out a sigh of relief and starts recording.
Have you ever met someone who has all the potential in the world to do great things but they can’t get out of their own way? Hello. My name is Frank Lynn and I am my own worst enemy.
I backed myself into a corner through both my words and my actions. My career is on the line in the Golden Opportunity match at SuperBrawl. It isn’t an official stipulation but it might as well be. Everyone heard what Lila Sleater said after my match at The Gate.
You can get everything you want after SuperBrawl *IF* you win the Golden Opportunity match. If you lose, you get nothing!
Lila wasn’t just telling me that if I lost I wouldn’t be the Golden Opportunity Champion. She was promising me a very hard road ahead full of dark matches against an endless parade of local indy talent looking for a big break. She was warning me that there would be no more title matches, no main event matches, no chance of climbing the ladder of success. She was reminding me that you do not make an enemy of the head booker.
That is one hell of a wake up call. I didn’t come to the WFWF to make excuses. I didn’t come here to watch my career crash and burn. I damn sure didn’t come here to fail and go crawling back to MMA with my tail between my legs. If I don’t win the Golden Opportunity that is exactly what will happen and it makes me want to puke.
I’m going to do everything I can to win the Golden Opportunity because I have to. I have no choice. It is not just my golden opportunity, it may very well be my last and only opportunity. At SuperBrawl it is win or go home.
I will use all the skills I have from years of training in combat sports. I will make a plan and keep calm so I can execute it. I will use my anger but it will be controlled and targeted, not the reckless self-destructive anger of the recent past. I will be the best Frank Lynn I can be. That should be more than enough to make me a champion.
Exactly who stands between me and the Golden Opportunity?
There is Ante Whitner, the veteran with the obvious edge in experience. At least you might think that until you look a little deeper. Fact is, Whitner has been struggling for a while. He had a shot at Black Hole Sun to go after the International Title at SuperBrawl but he blew that when Brennan steamrolled him. Then he disappeared for a while, probably to contemplate his growing irrelevancy.
The Golden Opportunity is announced and suddenly he pops up again, dismantling Danté “Stickboy” Brooks to qualify. Beating Brooks does not make you relevant. Trust me, I know from personal experience. It was really impressive to see you drag Joe Bishop down to your level in that loss to Trace Demon and Lucas Crowe. Sorry Ante, you are irrelevant and will remain so after I beat you at SuperBrawl.
Then there is Warren Goodwin. Warren must be loving life right about now. After years of barnstorming his way through the indies he shows up in the WFWF, wins one match, and is suddenly a serious title contender? Nope. He is just another victim for me.
Hey Warren, here’s a quote for you to consider before you get in my face: “You slap me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize.” I’m gonna kick your ass straight back to whatever lost decade you think you are living in. I hope it isn’t the 1920s because you are going to need a stiff drink or two.
How about Maxwell Dachs, riding the wave of Dachslemania, and LeeRoy Jenkins’ back, to his chance at the Golden Opportunity. That’s right Max, I was there at ringside and I saw LeeRoy win that match. You literally jumped on LeeRoy’s back and rode him straight to SuperBrawl. Did you at least give him a reach around? You owed him that much.
I probably shouldn’t talk too much trash about you because that is one thing you are very good at: trash talk. The less I say, the less you can twist around and throw back at me. Instead, let me demonstrate your future.
Frank pulls a #2 pencil and two grapes out of his pocket. He grips the pencil between his thumb and forefinger with the eraser resting in his palm in between the two grapes in an obvious representation of Dachs’ favorite body part.
Take a look Max. This is you. Sorry ladies, this is actual size.
Frank clenches his hand into a fist. The pencil breaks in two and the grapes are squashed, juice running out of Frank’s closed fist.
That’s you after this match. Get the picture?
Frank suddenly makes a surprised look as he points off camera.
Hey Max, is that Vass with a lead pipe? He looks pissed. You better run Max. Ha ha ha. How are you going to win this match while jumping at every Slayer shaped shadow?
Of course, I can’t forget my favorite wrestler ever: LeeRoy Jenkins. Congratulations LeeRoy on making the most of your second chance and qualifying for the Golden Opportunity. Need I remind you that I didn’t need two chances? Or that it was you I beat in my qualifier match? Or that it was you I beat in the tag match before that?
Surely you remember the tag match. It’s the one where you smacked me in the head with a steel chair and, with the help of “Stickboy” Brooks, tried to stomp the life out of me. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgiven either.
I don’t mind having to face LeeRoy in this match. I’m happy he is one of my opponents. He can’t beat me. He has failed twice already. I can’t wait to stand in the ring across from him so I can pay him back for the chair shot, the beat down, and for him being a giant redneck hemorrhoid on my ass that needs to be removed. LeeRoy, hurting you is just the icing on the cake of winning the Golden Opportunity Championship.
And then there is… well we don’t know for sure yet do we? Bison, Hall, Vass, Alexander - Devin not Quentin, Sol, or whoever else walks in off the street telling Lila that they deserve a first, second, or third chance at qualifying for the Golden Opportunity match. Hell, I’m getting tired of naming all the possible wrestlers I have to beat to claim my title. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of Lila’s staff is digging up the maggot infested carcass of Wolf, Malakai, or some other dead guy to re-animate them for this match too.
Honestly, it doesn’t f*cking matter to me who else is in the match. Skip the battle royal and let all five of them in the match. Dig up a few corpses and throw them in the ring. Hell, invite everyone in the front row to join in. It won’t change the outcome. I will be the one making history at SuperBrawl! Every one else in the match is just window dressing for my moment to shine.
Bottom line, I am not afraid of any of my opponents in this match. They should be afraid of me. Everything is on the line for me. Failure is not an option. The WFWF is where I belong. At SuperBrawl I prove that by winning the biggest match of my life on the biggest stage of all.
It’s time boys! SuperBrawl is my show! The Golden Opportunity is my title!
Get the f*ck out of my way!
featuring Frank Lynn
I KNOW I can beat you.
Cambridge, MA : Oct. 10, 2016
Frank Lynn sits behind the desk in Abraham Templeton’s Legacy Gym office. They had just finished a brief meeting where Abe gave him all the good news regarding his recent investment. The new servers were in place along with a dedicated fiber line. Internet subscriptions were on the rise. Six international stars had been signed for the next year: two from Japan, two from Canada, and two from Mexico. Perhaps most surprising news was an offer from the local Comcast sports network to broadcast a weekly one hour LPW show.
Abraham had been worried about Frank’s incident with Brick Harrison at Fall Brawl ’16 but it had actually increased interest and attendance at subsequent LPW events. People wanted to see what insanity, or Lynn-sanity as they were calling it on Twitter, would happen next between the LPW wrestlers and the new owner & resident lunatic.
Frank had a smile on his face as he put a stack of LPW paperwork into his bag and pulled out a different set of papers. He flashed back to Exodus, the night everything changed for him. He hadn’t given any thought to the overtures Joshua Dean had made that night and ensuing events assured that he quickly forgot about it. Only the persistent pestering by a lawyer he had hired after Dewey, Chedum, and Howe had terminated their contract with him brought it back to his attention.
Frank didn’t pretend to understand the legalese of the official contract, but his new lawyer had translated it into a much shorter version written in layman’s terms that he could understand. It was intriguing enough that he had decided to dance with the devil… if only the devil would get here. What was taking Dean so long? Frank had checked incoming flights to Logan International Airport and Dean’s flight had arrived on schedule. The trip from Logan to the Legacy Gym should not take this long. Was it possible for the devil to get lost?
Frank passed the time by watching one of his LPW matches on the TV in Abe’s office. He was enjoying the El Tigre Blanco vs Darryl Dixon match as it was one of his best, a twenty-five minute main event that told a good story and the fans, all 250 of them, were on the edge of their seats the entire time.
Frank was so into the match that he didn’t notice when the Franchise Joshua Dean walked into the office.
That White Tiger guy was really good. I wonder what happened to him.
Frank looks up, equally startled by Dean’s interruption and by his knowledge of his alter ego.
El Tigre Blanco was one of the best to ever work here at Legacy. Then he left. Nobody really knows why or where he went.
I’ve done my research. Don’t you find it odd that a top luchador never once appeared in Mexico?
He was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a tiger striped body suit. Best to leave it at that.
Frank reaches into the pocket of his jacket slung over the back of the chair and removes a bright yellow tennis ball. He puts his hand under the desk and starts squeezing the ball. Josh sees it all, sees the veins pop out on Frank’s forearm as he punishes the tennis ball.
Frank doesn’t care what Josh sees. He just wants Josh to drop the subject. He wants El Tigre Blanco forgotten so that he won’t have to deal with the Guerrilla Fighting goons coming after him for breach of contract, particularly now that he had a substantial pile of money for them to take from him. To Josh’s credit, he picks up on this and deftly switches topics.
Damn shame. He could go places in the WFWF. But you didn’t ask me here to talk about a disappearing luchador, did you?
No. What took you so long getting here? Bad directions?
Directions were fine. Traffic sucked. If you have to deal with that every day it explains a lot about you.
There’s only one rule for driving in Boston: “I have the right of way.” We’re all used to it.
Frank is avoiding the real purpose of the meeting with more small talk, something Josh picks up on but allows. Frank will have to eat his humble pie soon enough but at least Josh seems content to let it happen at the pace Frank chooses.
Care to tell me why you are trying to crush a tennis ball under the desk?
It’s no secret. I have anger issues. I’m seeing an anger management specialist who recommended this as a way to control my anger.
That’s good Frank, damn good. Some of your recent actions had me rethinking my original offer. Tell me more.
You want to learn all my secrets, eh? Sorry, I’m not going to give you ammunition to use against me later. Suffice it to say I’ve always had a short temper. The murders just amplified it and now I have to get it back under control. Dr. Nichols says I’m making good progress.
Josh sits across from Frank quietly taking it all in. Frank begrudgingly respected Dean as someone who was always watching and listening, cataloging every little bit of information he could about potential opponents. Frank was doing the same to Dean as well.
Frank assumed there was also interest in how he was dealing with his anger issues as they could complicate any working relationship. Frank takes Josh’s contemplative silence as a cue to carry on.
Allow me to ease some of your fears. Thanks to Abraham, I’ve smoothed over my differences with Brick Harrison. I apologized, which was sincere, and had to promise a special opportunity for him in LPW. He has potential so that is not much of a concession. Bottom line, it is over. No more bad press and no police involvement.
Glad to hear it. I don’t want a felon as a client.
Trust me, I don’t want to be a felon. That’s why I am getting counseling.
Frank continues to squeeze the tennis ball. Sitting here across from a man he has quickly grown to hate and yet now finds himself about to ask for help… that is eating him up inside. “Pride goeth before the fall” or some profound crap like that. Quoting proverbs won’t make this any easier on Frank.
And you try to crush a tennis ball any time you get angry? I guess that’s better than assaulting random people. Can I see it?
Frank tosses the ball across the desk to Joshua, taking another out of his jacket so he can keep on squeezing the crap out of something. Josh rolls the ball around in his hand. It is a normal tennis ball except for one thing: the name “LeeRoy Jenkins” has been written on it in bright red marker.
LeeRoy Jenkins, eh? Is that the counselors idea or yours?
Mine. I don’t know if he would approve but I don’t care.
So you are still hung up on the chair shot?
The chair shot and the beatdown that followed. Wouldn’t that get under your skin?
Maybe. Let me guess, you also have a Joshua Dean tennis ball somewhere?
Frank holds up the ball he is currently squeezing so Josh can clearly see his name in bright red letters.
Yep. I’m actually on my second Joshua Dean ball. I’m on my fourth Drakz ball if it matters to you.
Not really. How many Lila Sleaters?
Damn! Frank wonders if Dean somehow knows about his e-mail to Lila, one of his biggest mistakes since arriving in the WFWF. ”Fines, suspension, and even firing don’t scare me anymore. You need me more than I need you.” What the hell had he been thinking trying to threaten and blackmail the head booker of the WFWF?
None. Her face is on my dart board.
Ouch. What is it between you and her?
She’s a manipulating bitch. She has been playing me ever since I signed my WFWF contract.
She is trying to put on the best show possible.
By manipulating people.
It’s her job.
Which she enjoys a little too much. I won’t be manipulated anymore. That’s why we’re meeting today.
Is that so?
Frank notices a change in Josh’s tone and demeanor. Josh must sense that Frank is done beating around the bush. Josh knows the humble pie is about to be served and he is turning up the smug arrogance to make Frank as uncomfortable as possible. Frank wonders if Josh is testing him to see if he will snap again.
Yes. You made me an offer at Exodus. I’ve decided to accept.
Well well well. Finally seeing the light. You’re already good. I can make you better.
Don’t rub it in. I still don’t like you. I don’t think I will ever like you. But I am smart enough to see that working with you has benefits.
There’s that word - smart. I thought I was a dumbass.
Frank seethes internally as Josh continues to push his buttons. Was he really trying to find Frank’s breaking point or is it that his ego requires him to always get the last word.
If you think I really meant it then maybe you are a dumbass. That was wrestler promo talk, stupid macho posturing and attempts at mind games. The more I call you stupid, the better the chance you actually do something stupid in the match. Same reason I called Drakz a coward over and over. Maybe it would cause him to do something cowardly in the match that I could capitalize on.
Like having a drink thrown in your face, getting slammed through electrical equipment, handcuffed to the ring post, and beat unconscious by a chair? Didn’t work out so well for you.
I had to try. Live and learn.
So do you still think you can beat me?
For all his seemingly good intentions and good will, Josh just has to keep pushing. Frank notes that ego need of Josh’s for future reference. He would love to continue the verbal sparring but at this point it is becoming counter-productive. If he allowed Josh to puff his chest out one more time, maybe they could get on to the real business at hand.
No, I don’t think I can beat you. I KNOW I can beat you. But that is something for the future. Here in the present I… well that is…
Go on.
I…
You can say it.
I need your help.
That wasn’t so hard, now was it?
And there it is. Josh has managed to get the last word and Frank’s ego is intact because he knows that he took a dive. Frank was satisfied to let Josh have his hollow victory.
It is more important for Frank to learn from Joshua Dean, both the lessons Josh wants to teach him and those he won’t even realize Frank is learning just by observing him. For example, Frank just learned how to manipulate Joshua Dean by preying on his messiah complex. Josh really did want to save the WFWF one wrestler at a time.
Bastard. Yes, I need you. I am making mistakes. Not so much in the ring mind you. I have all the combat fighting skills I need to win any match I am in. I need you to help me navigate all the backstage crap. The damn manipulations that are always going on. And possibly repair my damaged reputation with the fans so marketing will get off my ass about slow merchandise sales.
Wrestling is not an easy business to break into. There are sharks swimming in these waters ready to feast on inexperienced rookies like you.
You are one of those sharks. That is why I am signing the contract. I’m placing my career in your hands. I don’t like you but I am trusting you to not use me as a tool for you to reach your goals. This is about me reaching my goals.
Josh leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head. His tone and demeanor change yet again and now it is more informal, like two co-workers chatting at the water cooler about a football game. Frank is almost positive that all of this was a test to see if Frank would snap and attack him. The counseling was working and Frank had kept his cool. Having passed the test, Josh now seems like he actually wants to be friends… or at least friendly-ish. Frank didn’t even realize that he had stopped squeezing the tennis ball until it dropped from his hand and bounced under the desk.
No more “macho posturing” Frank. I wanted to sign you because I saw potential. I still do. I’m not going to screw you over.
I almost believe you.
Give it time. Now, let’s get to it. You have an important match at SuperBrawl.
Damn right I do. I have to beat five men to win the Golden Opportunity. That’s a lot to prepare for.
Nothing you’ve been through before can prepare you for a six man match. I have my own six man match at SuperBrawl so I have a few thoughts on how we both can improve our chances if you want to hear them.
I’m all ears.
Frank listened intently to Joshua Dean’s words of wisdom but at the same time in the back of his head Charlie Daniels was playing a modified version of his classic song - in this version the Devil went north from Georgia looking for a soul to steal which he got when he won a duel with Frank Lynn.
———
Beware of Dog
Everybody has seen it - the picturesque house with the white picket fence and the sign on the gate that says Beware of Dog. You look over the fence and laying in the yard is a docile dog living up to the standard of Man’s Best Friend waiting for his master to come home so he can shower him or her with kisses. You think the sign is just for decoration and to avoid possible lawsuits from the US Postal Service when Fido tries to hump the mail carriers leg once too often. You approach the fence, sticking your hand out to get the dogs attention.
Thats when the sh*t hits the fan. The once cuddly, cute bundle of fur turns into a rabid beast lunging at you, lip drawn back revealing razor sharp teeth, saliva spraying everywhere, every one of its muscles visibly straining against its industrial strength steel chain leash as it tries to live out its favorite fantasy - ripping your throat out and drinking your blood just because it tastes good.
Not a pretty picture, is it? Norman Rockwell meets Stephen King. You may ask why is “Fearless” Frank Lynn pontificating about canines with bad attitudes? The answer should be obvious. I am that dog and you damn well should beware of me.
My friends will tell you. I can be as loyal and loving as man’s best friend when it comes to my friends. Everybody else is a different story. I don’t know you. I don’t like you, or probably won’t like you if I was inclined to get to know you which I’m not. And inside me dwells a rage monster that wants to rip your throat out and drink your blood.
The stories of my rage are spreading. Ask Mike Jette, who had the audacity to challenge me to a street fight and paid the price when I snapped. Ask Drakz about the time I took off from the top turnbuckle and flew through the air into the crowd to bring him down with a vicious SPAZ ATTACK. Ask LeeRoy Jenkins how it felt to have his back stretched out by my camel clutch. Ask Danté Brooks what it was like to get beat senseless by my unstoppable ground and pound attack. Ask Brick Harrison how it felt when I popped his shoulder out just because he said something I didn’t like.
I can’t deny the accusations. I don’t want to. I am guilty. I have a rage monster inside me. I need help controlling the beast. I am learning how to put a leash on it and build a fence to keep it contained. I haven’t appeared in any new viral videos beating up random people so it is working… somewhat. The rage monster is still strong and it still hungers. I can feel it struggling to get free.
That’s why being a WFWF wrestler is so good for me. I get paid to physically abuse my opponents. I can remove the leash, open the gate, and free the monster. Hell, people pay to see me do it. They cheer when the beast feeds. I will happily oblige because it is good therapy. Your suffering is the key to my well-being.
Superbrawl is going to be a very good night for me. Five opponents at once?! Thats five times the usual victims for the rage monster to feed upon. It is going to be a very therapeutic match. The beast will be satiated for long time afterwards.
You were warned. The sign is posted for all to see: Beware of Dog. It’s not my fault if you choose to ignore it.
———
Boston, MA : Oct. 17, 2016
Frank is awakened by the incessant ringing of his doorbell. Still half asleep, he goes to the door and buzzes whoever it is into the apartment building. Had he been completely awake he would have asked who it was first but that part of his brain was not functioning yet. For a very brief moment he thought it was Becky or Ricky coming to join him on his morning run but reality came crashing in as his brain continued the morning boot up process.
He makes a quick dash to the bathroom to splash water on his face while his visitor makes their way to his apartment. He barely has time to throw on a t-shirt and jeans before there is a knock at the door.
Frank looks through the peephole and sees a latino man he does not recognize.
Who is it?
An amigo, Señor Lynn. Please open the door. My business is with you, not your neighbors.
Frank checks that his home security system is in place: an old hockey stick propped against the wall next to the door. He opens the door.
Gracias señor. I am sorry to interrupt you so early.
Well you did. Get to the point please.
I am here to escort you to meet Señor Juan Carlos de Silva.
Who the hell is that?
Come with me and find out for yourself.
No thanks. I think we’re done now.
No, señor, we are not.
Frank starts to close the door when the man sticks a hand out and stops him. He pulls back his jacket with his other hand revealing a gun.
Por favor, señor. I insist. Señor Juan Carlos would be most displeased with me if you are harmed but he would be more displeased if I do not bring you to meet him.
F*ck me.
Frank looks at the hockey stick and regrets not getting an upgrade. An Uzi would be nice but he would settle for a quick starting chainsaw.
Frank, with the approval of his armed escort, takes a few minutes to properly wash up and put on some clean clothes before allowing himself to be led out of the building and into a luxurious limousine. The man had nothing more to say during the trip. He sits opposite Frank stone faced with one hand always near his gun.
So you want to talk about the weather? No? You’re the strong silent type, eh? I bet the chicks dig that.
Frank get no reaction so he watches and waits hoping for an opportunity to escape that never comes. Frank tries to be calm but he is pretty sure that he is about to die from a bullet to the head, just like the others did several months ago. He still has no idea why five people were assassinated in his mother’s living room and he has less idea why it is his turn now.
The drive takes 45 minutes thanks to Boston’s typical rush hour congestion. That’s what happens when all the streets are paved over cow paths from 250 years ago. The limousine enters Logan International through a side gate and heads towards a private jet sitting at the far outskirts of the busy airport. For better or worse, they were there. Time to meet Señor Juan Carlos de Silva. Time to meet his maker?
The man with the gun motions for Frank to exit the limousine, then motions again for Frank to go up the steps and inside the jet. The man with the gun remains on the tarmac. Frank reaches the top of the steps and turns to give the gunman one last look, actually looking for an opening but there is nowhere he can get to in less time than the gunman could shoot him down. In a final desperate display of bravado, he slips into his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.
I’ll be back. no reaction Get to the choppa! no reaction It’s not a tumor! no reaction… Frank continues in his normal voice You’re no fun.
Frank gives up trying to get a reaction from the gunman and cautiously steps into the jet. The inside is every bit as luxurious as the limousine, highlighted by a full champagne breakfast on a table by four of the most comfortable seats to ever see the inside of an airplane. Sitting in one of the seats is a man Frank assumes is Señor Juan Carlos de Silva.
He is of average height and build, tanned, clean shaven, short curly black hair that is graying slightly at the temples. He is wearing a cream colored linen suit over a powder blue shirt and brown Italian leather loafers with no socks. Complementing the outfit are top of the line RayBan sunglasses and a white fedora, both sitting on the table until such a time as de Silva decides to put them on and exit the plane. Frank does not see any weapons, unless you count a butter knife. He has a few more minutes to save his ass from whatever grisly fate de Silva has planned for him.
Juan Carlos returns the favor, checking out Frank in his trademark red t-shirt, black jeans, and tan hiking books; his leather jacket off and slung over his shoulder. Juan Carlos is just as stone-faced as his man outside so Frank has no idea what Juan Carlos is looking for or what he is thinking.
Hola Señor Lynn. You have nothing to be nervous about.
That’s not how I see it. An armed man comes to my door and tells me I WILL come meet you. So here I am. What the hell do you want?
There is no need for vulgarities señor. They are the crutch of the weak-minded. I know you are smarter than that. Please sit. Join me for some of this truly wonderful breakfast. The orange juice is fresh squeezed from oranges we picked up in Miami on our way here. From the tree to your lips in less than six hours.
Juan Carlos isn’t wrong, it is some of best orange juice Frank has ever tasted. At his hosts behest, Frank picks up one of the breakfast burritos and takes a bite. Again, it was the best of its kind he had ever tasted, worthy of a five star restaurant instead of a fast food chain most famous for causing rampant diarrhea. How strange to go to so much trouble for someone you are about to kill.
Thanks. Why shouldn’t I be f*cking nervous?
No more vulgarities, por favor. I won’t ask again. I know you have a college education. Stop acting like your hooligan wrestling counterparts who don’t know any better.
Fine. Why shouldn’t I be nervous? The five people who were closest to me get murdered. Several months later an armed man “invites” me to a mysterious meeting. Sounds like the perfect time to be nervous.
I apologize for Pablo. He sometimes takes my orders too literally. I am not here to hurt you. I know of the tragedy that happened to your mother and friends. I assure you, the man responsible is no threat to you.
Frank isn’t sure what to make of Juan Carlos. On the one hand he talks like a very dangerous man and pistol packing Pablo’s presence seems to back that up. On the other hand, he is treating Frank respectfully, almost friendly, and Frank finds strange comfort in that. Perhaps he wasn’t about to meet his maker after all?
That puts you one up on Boston’s finest. Why?
I want you to be safe and so you are. If you want, I can make you successful too.
I don’t need your help. You still haven’t answered my question. Why?
I do not offer my help because I think you need it. I offer my help because it is something I want to do.
Stop beating around the bush. Why did you bring me here?
I wanted to meet you, to help you…
Juan Carlos’ Brazilian accent changes into a perfectly natural Boston accent.
…because I, Juan Carlos de Silva, was born Thomas Francis McAvoy. (pause) I am your father.
To be continued…
———
Pasadena, CA : Superbrawl IX
Frank is in the studio a few days before Superbrawl to record his promo. Yet again, he is working with the same camera man as the past three shows so they have the routine down pat.
Ready whenever you are Frank.
Thanks not-Ricky.
Enough of this crap! I have a name! It is Stephen! Use it or I start f*cking up your promos! How would you like it if I tweak the audio so you sound like Alvin the Chipmunk?
A grim-faced Frank takes a few steps towards Stephen who starts to worry that he just made a huge mistake. As he gets closer, Frank grabs Stephen by the shoulders. Then he smiles from ear to ear and pats Stephen on his cheek.
Well damn not-Ricky. You grew a pair. I’m impressed. So are you ready to record this promo… Stephen?
And on that note Stephen lets out a sigh of relief and starts recording.
Have you ever met someone who has all the potential in the world to do great things but they can’t get out of their own way? Hello. My name is Frank Lynn and I am my own worst enemy.
I backed myself into a corner through both my words and my actions. My career is on the line in the Golden Opportunity match at SuperBrawl. It isn’t an official stipulation but it might as well be. Everyone heard what Lila Sleater said after my match at The Gate.
You can get everything you want after SuperBrawl *IF* you win the Golden Opportunity match. If you lose, you get nothing!
Lila wasn’t just telling me that if I lost I wouldn’t be the Golden Opportunity Champion. She was promising me a very hard road ahead full of dark matches against an endless parade of local indy talent looking for a big break. She was warning me that there would be no more title matches, no main event matches, no chance of climbing the ladder of success. She was reminding me that you do not make an enemy of the head booker.
That is one hell of a wake up call. I didn’t come to the WFWF to make excuses. I didn’t come here to watch my career crash and burn. I damn sure didn’t come here to fail and go crawling back to MMA with my tail between my legs. If I don’t win the Golden Opportunity that is exactly what will happen and it makes me want to puke.
I’m going to do everything I can to win the Golden Opportunity because I have to. I have no choice. It is not just my golden opportunity, it may very well be my last and only opportunity. At SuperBrawl it is win or go home.
I will use all the skills I have from years of training in combat sports. I will make a plan and keep calm so I can execute it. I will use my anger but it will be controlled and targeted, not the reckless self-destructive anger of the recent past. I will be the best Frank Lynn I can be. That should be more than enough to make me a champion.
Exactly who stands between me and the Golden Opportunity?
There is Ante Whitner, the veteran with the obvious edge in experience. At least you might think that until you look a little deeper. Fact is, Whitner has been struggling for a while. He had a shot at Black Hole Sun to go after the International Title at SuperBrawl but he blew that when Brennan steamrolled him. Then he disappeared for a while, probably to contemplate his growing irrelevancy.
The Golden Opportunity is announced and suddenly he pops up again, dismantling Danté “Stickboy” Brooks to qualify. Beating Brooks does not make you relevant. Trust me, I know from personal experience. It was really impressive to see you drag Joe Bishop down to your level in that loss to Trace Demon and Lucas Crowe. Sorry Ante, you are irrelevant and will remain so after I beat you at SuperBrawl.
Then there is Warren Goodwin. Warren must be loving life right about now. After years of barnstorming his way through the indies he shows up in the WFWF, wins one match, and is suddenly a serious title contender? Nope. He is just another victim for me.
Hey Warren, here’s a quote for you to consider before you get in my face: “You slap me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize.” I’m gonna kick your ass straight back to whatever lost decade you think you are living in. I hope it isn’t the 1920s because you are going to need a stiff drink or two.
How about Maxwell Dachs, riding the wave of Dachslemania, and LeeRoy Jenkins’ back, to his chance at the Golden Opportunity. That’s right Max, I was there at ringside and I saw LeeRoy win that match. You literally jumped on LeeRoy’s back and rode him straight to SuperBrawl. Did you at least give him a reach around? You owed him that much.
I probably shouldn’t talk too much trash about you because that is one thing you are very good at: trash talk. The less I say, the less you can twist around and throw back at me. Instead, let me demonstrate your future.
Frank pulls a #2 pencil and two grapes out of his pocket. He grips the pencil between his thumb and forefinger with the eraser resting in his palm in between the two grapes in an obvious representation of Dachs’ favorite body part.
Take a look Max. This is you. Sorry ladies, this is actual size.
Frank clenches his hand into a fist. The pencil breaks in two and the grapes are squashed, juice running out of Frank’s closed fist.
That’s you after this match. Get the picture?
Frank suddenly makes a surprised look as he points off camera.
Hey Max, is that Vass with a lead pipe? He looks pissed. You better run Max. Ha ha ha. How are you going to win this match while jumping at every Slayer shaped shadow?
Of course, I can’t forget my favorite wrestler ever: LeeRoy Jenkins. Congratulations LeeRoy on making the most of your second chance and qualifying for the Golden Opportunity. Need I remind you that I didn’t need two chances? Or that it was you I beat in my qualifier match? Or that it was you I beat in the tag match before that?
Surely you remember the tag match. It’s the one where you smacked me in the head with a steel chair and, with the help of “Stickboy” Brooks, tried to stomp the life out of me. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgiven either.
I don’t mind having to face LeeRoy in this match. I’m happy he is one of my opponents. He can’t beat me. He has failed twice already. I can’t wait to stand in the ring across from him so I can pay him back for the chair shot, the beat down, and for him being a giant redneck hemorrhoid on my ass that needs to be removed. LeeRoy, hurting you is just the icing on the cake of winning the Golden Opportunity Championship.
And then there is… well we don’t know for sure yet do we? Bison, Hall, Vass, Alexander - Devin not Quentin, Sol, or whoever else walks in off the street telling Lila that they deserve a first, second, or third chance at qualifying for the Golden Opportunity match. Hell, I’m getting tired of naming all the possible wrestlers I have to beat to claim my title. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of Lila’s staff is digging up the maggot infested carcass of Wolf, Malakai, or some other dead guy to re-animate them for this match too.
Honestly, it doesn’t f*cking matter to me who else is in the match. Skip the battle royal and let all five of them in the match. Dig up a few corpses and throw them in the ring. Hell, invite everyone in the front row to join in. It won’t change the outcome. I will be the one making history at SuperBrawl! Every one else in the match is just window dressing for my moment to shine.
Bottom line, I am not afraid of any of my opponents in this match. They should be afraid of me. Everything is on the line for me. Failure is not an option. The WFWF is where I belong. At SuperBrawl I prove that by winning the biggest match of my life on the biggest stage of all.
It’s time boys! SuperBrawl is my show! The Golden Opportunity is my title!
Get the f*ck out of my way!
I dont know good luck 
