Post by cureforthesickness on Sept 24, 2006 16:18:28 GMT -5
Date: September 27th 2006, 4 AM.
You’re a rebel. F*ck you.
The destruction of a rock star hotel room. Smashed furniture, holes in walls, empty liquor containers everywhere, and what appears to be blood on the walls. In the distance, laughter can be heard. Not like laughter of joy, but an evil laughter, a laughter that brings fear to the hearts. In the background amongst the destruction is Obo, laying flat on his back and laughing. Surrounding his body are small orange bottles, apparently the bottles of prescription medications. An unheard traceable voice can be heard, emitting from somewhere in the far background of what we see.
Voice: (inaudible words followed by): You’re on.
Obo: F*ck it. Why the f*ck should I? Nothing makes me want to fight this punk ass mother f*cker. F*ck that poser and f*ck the pony he rode in on. He’s a rebel, big f*cking deal. Sniff markers and listen to emo music if you think it makes you a rebel, but deep down inside, you know what you are. You know that you aren’t as you claim and you know that you have walked into the personal minefield known as a match with me. You know that you have walked into the killing fields and that my shotguns are ready to blow your f*cking brains out. Nothing about you worries me. Ghetto f*ck or whatever your name is, I don’t even f*cking care. You won’t last. You’ll be dead by tomorrow. Overdosed on your first night on the job. Don’t f*ck with The Dopeman’s drugs, because he will kill you. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to have the honor of sacrificing the virgin and showering in the bloodshed. I am the modern day warrior, the gladiator. Life explodes around me, and I stand back laughing. I’m not some poser bitch who walks around with my pants around my knees and talks a hillbilly growl. I don’t stomp around barefoot in dirt to music with my inbred cousins. F*ck it. Why am I even wasting time with this backwoods inbred mother f*cker? He’s a zombie. A clone of what is expected out of today’s society. He comes directly out of the mold while I broke the f*cking mold. Picked the piece of sh*t up while it was still hot and kicked it around for a little bit. Mother f*ckers who doubt me walk around spewing a whole lot of sh*t, but it always comes back to haunt them. Why even bother with all this sh*t? I don’t hate this redneck ghetto trash f*cker specifically, I hate everyone. He drew the unenviable card of coming in my path, which will lead to his demise. Hope your family gives you a good funeral, because I’ll be there pissing on your corpse.
Obo begins to scratch his face. It’s not an itch though, it’s a digging. He’s digging and digging, deeper and deeper, tearing away at his face. His forehead becomes beat red with these brutal scratch marks as a thin layer of crimson begins to flow from the particularly deep wounds.
Obo: The King of Gore is not just a nickname, but a lifestyle. It’s a style of wrestling and it’s a way of passage. It’s a way of entertainment. Nothing is more entertaining to me than shreading an opponent with razor sharp barbed wire, digging the barbs deep into their flesh and creating an unforgiving wound. It’s not just about weapons though. This should not be forgotten. It’s a lifestyle. I can draw blood with anything, and my bare hands are some of my favorite weapons. Nothing beats the thrill of sinking your own bare hands into someone’s flesh and tearing away, causing a crimson waterfall to flow. It’s an adrenaline rush.
With that, Obo cuts out another of these laughs that haunted the annihilated hotel room as we cut out.
You’re a rebel. F*ck you.
The destruction of a rock star hotel room. Smashed furniture, holes in walls, empty liquor containers everywhere, and what appears to be blood on the walls. In the distance, laughter can be heard. Not like laughter of joy, but an evil laughter, a laughter that brings fear to the hearts. In the background amongst the destruction is Obo, laying flat on his back and laughing. Surrounding his body are small orange bottles, apparently the bottles of prescription medications. An unheard traceable voice can be heard, emitting from somewhere in the far background of what we see.
Voice: (inaudible words followed by): You’re on.
Obo: F*ck it. Why the f*ck should I? Nothing makes me want to fight this punk ass mother f*cker. F*ck that poser and f*ck the pony he rode in on. He’s a rebel, big f*cking deal. Sniff markers and listen to emo music if you think it makes you a rebel, but deep down inside, you know what you are. You know that you aren’t as you claim and you know that you have walked into the personal minefield known as a match with me. You know that you have walked into the killing fields and that my shotguns are ready to blow your f*cking brains out. Nothing about you worries me. Ghetto f*ck or whatever your name is, I don’t even f*cking care. You won’t last. You’ll be dead by tomorrow. Overdosed on your first night on the job. Don’t f*ck with The Dopeman’s drugs, because he will kill you. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to have the honor of sacrificing the virgin and showering in the bloodshed. I am the modern day warrior, the gladiator. Life explodes around me, and I stand back laughing. I’m not some poser bitch who walks around with my pants around my knees and talks a hillbilly growl. I don’t stomp around barefoot in dirt to music with my inbred cousins. F*ck it. Why am I even wasting time with this backwoods inbred mother f*cker? He’s a zombie. A clone of what is expected out of today’s society. He comes directly out of the mold while I broke the f*cking mold. Picked the piece of sh*t up while it was still hot and kicked it around for a little bit. Mother f*ckers who doubt me walk around spewing a whole lot of sh*t, but it always comes back to haunt them. Why even bother with all this sh*t? I don’t hate this redneck ghetto trash f*cker specifically, I hate everyone. He drew the unenviable card of coming in my path, which will lead to his demise. Hope your family gives you a good funeral, because I’ll be there pissing on your corpse.
Obo begins to scratch his face. It’s not an itch though, it’s a digging. He’s digging and digging, deeper and deeper, tearing away at his face. His forehead becomes beat red with these brutal scratch marks as a thin layer of crimson begins to flow from the particularly deep wounds.
Obo: The King of Gore is not just a nickname, but a lifestyle. It’s a style of wrestling and it’s a way of passage. It’s a way of entertainment. Nothing is more entertaining to me than shreading an opponent with razor sharp barbed wire, digging the barbs deep into their flesh and creating an unforgiving wound. It’s not just about weapons though. This should not be forgotten. It’s a lifestyle. I can draw blood with anything, and my bare hands are some of my favorite weapons. Nothing beats the thrill of sinking your own bare hands into someone’s flesh and tearing away, causing a crimson waterfall to flow. It’s an adrenaline rush.
With that, Obo cuts out another of these laughs that haunted the annihilated hotel room as we cut out.
