Post by cureforthesickness on May 29, 2006 17:43:55 GMT -5
An untamed, animalistic playground, where I can implement my sickest fantasies. I can mutilate my own body and fellow human beings in a totally legal and sanctioned. I can crush bones and shred flesh and I am given all the implements that I could ever ask for. What bothers me? What irks me? What still lingers in my head? I’ve got a chance to walk out of this federation with the second biggest strap, I’ve got a chance to go on a hellacious roller coaster ride, send the fans home with something that both sickens them and satisfies them. But why am I nervous? Why am I preoccupied? What the hell is wrong with me?
Obo is in his usual disfigured state, his jeans in an unusual twist underneath him and frayed long down his legs. The only difference between the man we see now and the man we usually see is his upper body. This time, the Anti-Christ’s entire upper body is covered by a straight jacket. Unlike how people usually are in straight jackets in incredibly bunched up and pained, Obo seems to be quite comfortable in his single piece tied in suit. His hair is slightly matted, as if it hasn’t been combed in a while and he has no intent to comb it. The walls around Obo are completely padded with thick white padding, for if the patients in this asylum attempt to hurt themselves. Obo does not seem bothered by these thick padded walls or by the thick flooring material that pads for the same reason. He seems to be enjoying his own personal nirvana in this padded room.
Obo: People have been asking me what I think about this barbed wire steel cage match, what I plan to do, how sick I plan on being. What are you going to do that is crazier than a drum full of liquid nitrogen? How are you going to get past CBT and Calvin? What do you think of Drakz and Kyzer? Are you retiring? None of it matters to me at this point. Wrestling is the last thing I want to think about, but it is forced onto my table. I want to avoid it, but it is everywhere I look. I sit in my house and try to watch a baseball game, but all I see is wrestling. All I see is the headlines on SportsCenter about how this wrestling federation is promoting violence and drug use to children, how they are promoting Satanism and sexuality on a grand stage. Why the f*ck does it matter? None of these people know me, they don’t know what drives me. They don’t know what pushes me to do the things I do and they sure as hell do not know what causes me to walk into such violent situations. Why would I associate myself with a bunch of junkies and misfits? Because I damn well feel like it. Because I know where the money is to be made and because I know what has to be done to succeed. I don’t really give a f*ck how much crack Kyzer snorts, I don’t care how many acid pills Drakz takes before going out for press conferences, and I don’t really care what kind of weird sh*t they’ve been rolling up and smoking. What matters to me is me. Not the sex, not the drama, and frankly, not the violence. I do the violence because it is what is needed. They do the drugs and all that stupid sh*t because it’s what’s needed. CBT acts like a pompous jackass and Calvin sucks his own balls because it’s what’s needed. It’s all f*cking needed.
Obo begins to speak in tongues and cannot be understood. Although the words cannot be understood, we can still feel the emotion in the words as each word tears into the previous like thousands of razor blades through paper. With these coded words, Obo begins to pull himself upwards and thrash about violently, eventually busting one arm out of the straight jacket. With his one free arm, he attempts to tear the other arm free, but cannot. His motions become more and more violent before he eventually tosses himself back to the soft padded mat.
Obo: But what does it all mean? What do all these mysteries that have intricately weaved themselves together in such a way that they must be exposed in due time to the entire world mean? Why have I become the darkened enigma that would rather mutilate his body with razor sharp barbed wire and deadly chemicals in place of the jolly and always happy hobo? Why is being happy such a bad thing? Why is making people happy such a taboo? Why are smiles on my face outlawed and why am I not allowed to do anything pleasing? I am more than just some shallow character. I am still a human being, even when I appear superhuman at times. I do still have human emotions and I do still have a life outside of the squared circle. And here lies the problem with my current mojo. A problem that has plagued me for years is sticking it’s ugly head out yet again… I knew I’d have to confront it one day..
The mere thought of whatever this extreme evil is sends Obo into a great degree of shaking and it sends him into speaking in tongues once more. These tongues resemble words more than the previous did, but not much more. Obo’s violent shaking causes him to rip his other arm from the straight jacket. His tongues slow and quickly become more easily understandable.
Obo: Her name was Lisa Marie, named after Elvis’ daughter. She was truly the first love in my life. But it was not meant to be. My girlfriend at the time took her away from me. Not because she loved her or because she cared in any way for her. She hated her. She did it to hurt me. She knew that taking Lisa away from me was my trigger. She knew she just had to stroke the trigger gently and I would explode. But she could not just glide that finger along the trigger slowly, she had to jam the trigger. She had to punch it with all her might and she had to rip the trigger out of place. She killed my two month old daughter, drowned her in the kitchen sink of our mobile home.
Obo’s eyes close incredibly deeply, to such a degree that his face wrinkles up. He mutters a single word.
Obo: Bitch!
This is all he could muster up. All he could put together into a word or words. All he could vocalize his emotions into. His ex-girlfriend did more damage by killing that infant than imaginable. She wrecked his life. She caused a wave of destruction unimaginable by the common human being. She caused the father of her late child to not only put himself into dangerous situations but others because of how unstable he was. And now, once again, he is placed into a dangerous situation, where both his own and other’s well beings are put at risk. In a barbed wire steel cage match, a “scars” match. How will the obviously unstable Anti-Christ hold his own inside of the barbed wire steel cage match, fighting his own demons as well as his two opponents? How will he be able to beat opponents off when he is obviously battling with his own self destruction? And what will happen at the barbed wire steel cage match? Only time will tell…
Obo is in his usual disfigured state, his jeans in an unusual twist underneath him and frayed long down his legs. The only difference between the man we see now and the man we usually see is his upper body. This time, the Anti-Christ’s entire upper body is covered by a straight jacket. Unlike how people usually are in straight jackets in incredibly bunched up and pained, Obo seems to be quite comfortable in his single piece tied in suit. His hair is slightly matted, as if it hasn’t been combed in a while and he has no intent to comb it. The walls around Obo are completely padded with thick white padding, for if the patients in this asylum attempt to hurt themselves. Obo does not seem bothered by these thick padded walls or by the thick flooring material that pads for the same reason. He seems to be enjoying his own personal nirvana in this padded room.
Obo: People have been asking me what I think about this barbed wire steel cage match, what I plan to do, how sick I plan on being. What are you going to do that is crazier than a drum full of liquid nitrogen? How are you going to get past CBT and Calvin? What do you think of Drakz and Kyzer? Are you retiring? None of it matters to me at this point. Wrestling is the last thing I want to think about, but it is forced onto my table. I want to avoid it, but it is everywhere I look. I sit in my house and try to watch a baseball game, but all I see is wrestling. All I see is the headlines on SportsCenter about how this wrestling federation is promoting violence and drug use to children, how they are promoting Satanism and sexuality on a grand stage. Why the f*ck does it matter? None of these people know me, they don’t know what drives me. They don’t know what pushes me to do the things I do and they sure as hell do not know what causes me to walk into such violent situations. Why would I associate myself with a bunch of junkies and misfits? Because I damn well feel like it. Because I know where the money is to be made and because I know what has to be done to succeed. I don’t really give a f*ck how much crack Kyzer snorts, I don’t care how many acid pills Drakz takes before going out for press conferences, and I don’t really care what kind of weird sh*t they’ve been rolling up and smoking. What matters to me is me. Not the sex, not the drama, and frankly, not the violence. I do the violence because it is what is needed. They do the drugs and all that stupid sh*t because it’s what’s needed. CBT acts like a pompous jackass and Calvin sucks his own balls because it’s what’s needed. It’s all f*cking needed.
Obo begins to speak in tongues and cannot be understood. Although the words cannot be understood, we can still feel the emotion in the words as each word tears into the previous like thousands of razor blades through paper. With these coded words, Obo begins to pull himself upwards and thrash about violently, eventually busting one arm out of the straight jacket. With his one free arm, he attempts to tear the other arm free, but cannot. His motions become more and more violent before he eventually tosses himself back to the soft padded mat.
Obo: But what does it all mean? What do all these mysteries that have intricately weaved themselves together in such a way that they must be exposed in due time to the entire world mean? Why have I become the darkened enigma that would rather mutilate his body with razor sharp barbed wire and deadly chemicals in place of the jolly and always happy hobo? Why is being happy such a bad thing? Why is making people happy such a taboo? Why are smiles on my face outlawed and why am I not allowed to do anything pleasing? I am more than just some shallow character. I am still a human being, even when I appear superhuman at times. I do still have human emotions and I do still have a life outside of the squared circle. And here lies the problem with my current mojo. A problem that has plagued me for years is sticking it’s ugly head out yet again… I knew I’d have to confront it one day..
The mere thought of whatever this extreme evil is sends Obo into a great degree of shaking and it sends him into speaking in tongues once more. These tongues resemble words more than the previous did, but not much more. Obo’s violent shaking causes him to rip his other arm from the straight jacket. His tongues slow and quickly become more easily understandable.
Obo: Her name was Lisa Marie, named after Elvis’ daughter. She was truly the first love in my life. But it was not meant to be. My girlfriend at the time took her away from me. Not because she loved her or because she cared in any way for her. She hated her. She did it to hurt me. She knew that taking Lisa away from me was my trigger. She knew she just had to stroke the trigger gently and I would explode. But she could not just glide that finger along the trigger slowly, she had to jam the trigger. She had to punch it with all her might and she had to rip the trigger out of place. She killed my two month old daughter, drowned her in the kitchen sink of our mobile home.
Obo’s eyes close incredibly deeply, to such a degree that his face wrinkles up. He mutters a single word.
Obo: Bitch!
This is all he could muster up. All he could put together into a word or words. All he could vocalize his emotions into. His ex-girlfriend did more damage by killing that infant than imaginable. She wrecked his life. She caused a wave of destruction unimaginable by the common human being. She caused the father of her late child to not only put himself into dangerous situations but others because of how unstable he was. And now, once again, he is placed into a dangerous situation, where both his own and other’s well beings are put at risk. In a barbed wire steel cage match, a “scars” match. How will the obviously unstable Anti-Christ hold his own inside of the barbed wire steel cage match, fighting his own demons as well as his two opponents? How will he be able to beat opponents off when he is obviously battling with his own self destruction? And what will happen at the barbed wire steel cage match? Only time will tell…
