Post by Marcus Thomas Brody, M! T! B!! on Jul 1, 2011 0:14:26 GMT
Let me tell you about games...
It was Monday 28th October 2002. The day was miserable. The blue of the sky hadn't been seen all month. All you could see were the dingy dark clouds that congested in the sky. At least, for a change, it hadn't been raining. I was 13 years old and... well a bit on the round side. I hated school so much. They used to play a game they liked to call "Brody Ball," where, you guessed it, was football (I refuse to call it soccer) with me as the ball. This particular Monday was one I'd been dreading all weekend. It had been UCW Halloween Hell 8 on Friday and my dad had just lost the UCW Championship to Oz Van Damn in a Ladderjack match after an eighteen-day reign. In case you're wondering, a Ladderjack match is self explanitory; it's a Ladder match mixed with a Lumberjack match. My dad only lost because the Intercontinental Champion, The Chuft Guy had interfered, but it was still one in the L column, and he was no longer the champion.
It was tough being the son of a famous wrestler. Ever since I was born, people expected me to follow in Marcus Brody's footsteps and get into wrestling. When I was little, errm, big, errm younger, all I wanted to do was teach Maths. It was something I excelled at. Wrestling never once came to mind. In fact, even though I enjoyed watching my dad and UCW's new top star, The Predator, I didn't want to wrestle. Unfortunately, I was expected to be a chip off the old block and all the kids at school expected me to fight like a wrestler. They always got a kick out of beating up the son of the Human Suplex Machine, and would even boast that they "battered Marcus Brody" as if I was my dad. I was too scared to tell him about it. I felt as if I was letting him down. It was always hell whenever he lost.
As I said before, I dreaded the day, but I dreaded nothing more than break time that day. I tried to stay inside but, of course, the teachers didn't care about me. I was bullied to shit yet they didn't even bat an eyelid. Here, the inmates ran the asylum. I was told to go outside and "enjoy the sun." Did they not care enough to even notice the dull weather? I nervously headed out to the yard, which was strewn with excessive amounts of litter. Dying trees lined the paths from the broad courtyard and graffitti covered the dirty, disgusting, decaying brick walls of the technology block. As per usual, as soon as I walked out, a group of lads turned their heads. One of them was Francis Todd, who you should be familiar with if you've been following me. If not, he's the guy I smashed in with a pool cue after finding that he was the one who wrecked Sam Strachon's marriage, and that I was snubbed from the Elimination Chamber. With him was their leader, who went by the name of Scott Sinclair. He was your typical crusty chav, with his buzz cut and gormless expression. Oh, and his poor excuse for a uniform. Somehow it was cool to wear ties at a very short length. Quite frankly, they looked ridiculous. And trackies with shoes? Really?
That tangent aside, they all glared at me before Scott and his posse swaggered over with a silly walk that was probably rejected by Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks. Seriously. It looked as if they were trying to walk on the moon. I tried to escape but before I could move a muscle I was surrounded by this pack of dogs, although that's offensive to dogs. These guys were worse. And you knew Scott was speaking when you heard a voice like a grunt.
Scott Sinclair: Ooooh ahhh! Marcus Brody!
I didn't respond. I wasn't going to acknowledge the existance of such a thing as him.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh no' sayin' ought, mate? 'Coz daddy's a loser?
Francis Todd: Yea! We saw it on Friday! OVD killed him!
Scott Sinclair: Yuh dad sucks dick, yah!
I should have just told them my dad didn't care what anyone thought of him, but I did. Insteadm I said something I'd later regret.
Marcus T. Brody:Why don't you try having a Ladderjack Match with Oz Van Damn? It's his speciality. And try having that match with Chuft Guy holding you down. I'm sure you'd lose too!
The pack of hyenas burst into howls laughter and slapped themselves on the back like they'd achieved something. Like they wanted my reaction. I tried backing away but the mob shoved me to the ground. I felt the gravel scratching at my knees as I dropped. The cackling died down and Scott seized me by my tie.
Scott Sinclair: Gud yuh said Brody. We wuh gonna play Brody Ball but yuh gimme summet more fun.
My bag was ripped off my back and flung onto a telephone wire connecting the technology block to the main block. One of the yobs had stolen a ladder from some decorators and had it set up. Francis had my arms held behind me as Scott got so close in my face I could smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh gonna 'ave a Ladderjack match with me. I'mma beat Marcus Brody!
Marcus T. Brody:[/b] For fuck's sake! I'm not my dad!
Scott Sinclair: Oooom! Marcus Brody swore! Shut it yuh fat fuck!
I don't remember much of this clearly, so pardon me if I'm a bit vague here. I'm sure I was punched in the face and hounded by the gaggle of hoodlums around me. Of course, I knew if I fought back, I'd be the one to get in trouble, that's how fucked up my school was. Soon I was thrown into Scott's foot and ate a Rockport in the face before I head was driven into one of the middle rungs of the ladder. I staggered backwards but Scott righted me by gripping my hair, pulling me towards his foul-stenched face.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh gonna cry yuh lard arse?
Tears were streaming down my face from the pain and the taunting. How could anyone have been this mean? These bullies... No one would do anything about it and I was too scared to tell my dad. The system had let me down so I had to take a stand.
Scott Sinclair:Ay look! Baby Brody's cryin'! What a crybaby! A big fat baby!
Everyone started chanting "Big fat baby" at me, I wanted to carry on crying so much but I had anyonther urge brewing in me. An urge for vengeance. My blood was boiling. I had to live up to the Brody name. I was letting my dad down. I had no idea what made me think of what I did next, it must have been instinct, but I moved my knee as fast as my doughy body would let me right into Scott's stomach. He stumbled back and no one could believe their eyes. Everyone took a few steps back. I ploughed my fist into my head as hard as I could until my blood was covering my right hand. I had no idea why I did that but the once rowdy audience were silent with fear. I picked up the ladder and growled at Scott as I bore into him with my watery blue eyes.
Marcus T. Brody: I'm a baby, heh? A BIG!? FAT!? BABY!?!!!!
He was quivering. But suddenly, he smiled at me cockily. Next thing I knew, I was grabbed from behind by my arms and forced to drop the ladder. I turned my head and saw it was a couple of teachers who had me. I don't remember much of it and I'm sure my wailing was inaudible but they were having none of it. As I was being dragged away, I caught sight of Francis holding the ladder for Scott who was on top holding my back whilst everyone was laughing at me. Scott in particular taunted me with my bag. Everyone knew I was the victim yet I was the one who was punished. I was punished for doing what all these anti-bullying campaigns tell us to do: stand up for ourselves, and everyone found it hilarious! The victim was being punished, yet the bullies were getting away with this scott-free, excuse the pun. I played my part and they played their game! And those inbred twats had won this battle. But they gave war a bad name. There's more to this story, but it's not relevant right now. I'll save it for another time.[/i]
Now, you must be wondering why I'd take the time to tell that story, and I have good reason. Just think about it. There's some bullies. Their victim takes a stand and gets punished for it whilst the bullies get away with everything. Sounds familiar doesn't it? Jump forward over eight-and-a-half years to June 2011. This time the bullies were "Super" Benny Starr, "Wild" Bill Legend and their entourage. They would attack me during and after my matches, more than likely because they're either bitter from their loss to me at Genesis, or to soften me up before my War Games match with them and Christian Lee. What happened? They filed some lawsuit (more like paid someone to file a writ) that meant if either me or James Stall got physical with any of them unless in a match then whoever it was would be arrested. How cowardly. Hiding behind the suits, money and corrupting the law.
I was relieved when I found out I was going to be facing Benny on an episode of Live-Wire. I was going to get a chance to vent my frustrations out on at least one of them. But then I was worried they might get involved, so I had my agent, Sandy Strachon, get me Unknown for back-up. In the end, I chose to go alone once I found that Pain had banned everyone from ringside. So you'd think I'd have won the match, wouldn't you? After all I am far more talented than Benny Starr. Well the answer's no. During the match, I kept getting flashbacks to my school days, and the frustration built up until I snapped when I had the match won. I'd locked Benny in the Preysnatcher and was ready to hit the Su-Prey when it dawned on me. This felt really good. I clamped on more pressure and everything went black. I came to my senses in the locker room where Sandy greeted me with his eyebrows raised in concern.
Sandy Strachon: What was that. MTB?
I got up off the uncomfortable wooden bench and paced about for a moment before staring Sandy directly in the eyebrows.
MTB: Justice.
Sandy Strachon: And justice was worth missing out on yer winner's purse, was it? Ya coulda gone to jail MTB! Do ya want that with War Games coming up?
And then it clicked. I glanced over at a monitor and noticed that Christian Lee, Benny Starr and the Entourage were on the stage during Joe Stall's match with Sah'ta Thor. I opened my locker, pulled out the pool cue I'd been carrying around in case I needed an equalise and turned to Sandy.
MTB: How good's your legal team?
Sandy was startled. He had no idea how to react at first. He soon enough blurted out a response.
Sandy Strachon: The best.
MTB: That's all I need. Take my stuff with you. I'm not gonna need it where I'm goin'.
I stormed out of the locker room, down the washy corridors, and down to the arena whilst my music blared and the fans were on their feet. I hit the ring and near-enough broke my cue on everyone. Within a minute I was handcuffed by six police officers and stuffed into the back of a police car. And now we're at the part when I served time...
When I arrived, we went through the standard procedures of fingerprints, mugshot, issuing of prison clothes and whatnot. It was past lights out so I was taken straight to my cell. Everything was dark so I couldn't make much out. Weirdly, there was an actual door to my "cell" as opposed to bars and once it was locked I realised there was small barred window that barely let in any of the moonlight. I expected cold hard concrete under my feet but there was a fairly comfortable carpet. I felt a sink in front of me as I tried to find the bed. I eventually found my bed and collapsed onto it. I braced myself expecting to have dropped onto a rock, but no, it was actually softer than the beds in some of hotels I'd stayed in. Was this really what prison was like? I finally understood an article I'd seen a few weeks before about some men trying to break into a prison...
Morning came and a dim light seeped in, and I could finally see everything. There was a television! Yes, there was actually a TV in a prison! There was a Playstation 3 hooked up to it too. What the actual fuck? I took a moment to examine the stack of games that lay on the desk next to the TV. Thankfully "FWF: The Video Game" was amongst them. If I remembered right, it had the War Games match on it, and myself as a playable character. It may not have been the preparation I had in mind for War Zone, but it was preparation nonetheless.
Soon we were called out for what must have been the attendance check, to see if none of us had broken out. As they were checking games, I surveyed the area and checked the faces of the other inmates. Across the bridge, I spotted someone. Someone I hadn't seen for a few years. Some scumbag who had played games with me... Yes, now you know why I told that story from school before. One of the other inmates was...
Prison Guard: Sinclair, Scott!
Scott Sinclair: Here!
He looked almost exactly the same as he did in school. He had that gormless expression he wore everywhere, that same shaved head, that same crusty looking skin. This time, he was built like a brick shithouse. It was a build that many a wrestling promoter would coo over and clamour for. It was unnatural. As soon the stock check was taken, it was time to go to the exercise yard. I was guided through the doors by one of the guards and was pleased to see that this was more like what I had in mind. It was a spacious sandy floor enclosed in a 15-foot high steel cage with a roof on top. I'd guess from the size of it, were were looking at a 20 by 40 feet area. Coincidentally, that's the size of two rings placed side by side. And FWF WarZone uses those measurements, and a similar cage for the War Games match. Perfect conditions for training...
Once the door was locked, all the inmates were caged up. This was exactly what I'd been hoping for. No training was better than getting your mind in the game. And what a better way to get your mind into a cage-based game than being caged up? I sauntered around, gripping the cage to get a feel for it. I had to know my environment. I had to feel my environment. I turned around to a load of sand in my face and a fist to my stomach. I crumpled back against the cage as a familiar grunting sound entered my ears.
Scott Sinclair:Luk wat we 'ave 'ere. Big fat baby Brody ain't fat no more. 'n' he's in jail. Did yuh cry?
I could barely see Scott due to the sand in my eyes, so I couldn't see the punches he threw at me. Shouldn't the prison guards have stepped in by now? Moments later, the sand was clearing from my eyes, and my opportunity arose. I used my wrestling experience to duck, causing his hand to hit the cage. I spun behind him and hit a German Suplex, and within seconds the guards hounded me and dragged me off to the warden's office. I was led in and asked to sit down. The warden must have been in his sixties. His skin was darkening and sagging with age. A large pair of glasses rested on his nose, and thinning grey hair sat on top of his head. In fact, he reminded me of that guy with the montone voice who has bit-parts in "The Mask" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." So much that I half expected him to say "Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?"
Prison Warden: Brody? Brody?
Bloody hell, he even sounds like that guy...
Prison Warden: So why have you been brought here? I'm a busy man.
MTB: Well, Mr. Warden... I fought back against Scott Sinclair.
The warden flinched. So Scott was able to assert his bullying wrath on the prison as well? Someone really ought to have sorted him out by now.
Prison Warden: Do you honestly have a death wish?
MTB: No, not really. Why's everyone so afraid of him?
Prison Warden: Have you seen him? He's.. wait...
His eyes examined me inquisitively, then back to his papers, then back to me.
Prison Warden: You're not afraid of him?
MTB: Not anymore. He used to bully me in high school, but now, I'm sure you know who I am.
The warden took another look at the papers in front of him, and his eyes widened as if a lightbulb switched on in his head.
Prison Warden: Brody, Marcus Thomas... Marcus Brody! The wrestler? Aren't you a bit young?
He had to mention my dad, didn't he? Son of a Wrestler Syndrome strikes again! Can't I once get recognised for being MTB and not for being Marcus Brody Jr.?
MTB: No, I'm MTB, his son, and FWF Elite Tag Team Champion... Recognise?
Prison Warden: No, I don't watch wrestling anymore. But if you're a champion, why are you in here? Won't you lose your championship?
MTB: No, I shouldn't be in for long. I'm only in on civil charges. I'll be out in a week.
Prison Warden: Don't bank on that. It says here you'll be in for at least two months.
MTB: What!? But I have a title defence on July 1st! I have Bon Jovi tickets two weeks today!
Prison Warden: You'll have to let someone else have those... You're in for the long run.
MTB: Please, please, there's got to be something...
I leaned over the desk but the guards soon pulled me back into my seat. The warden pondered for a moment, twiddling his thumbs.
Prison Warden: There is one thing you could do for me.
MTB: What do you have in mind?
Prison Warden: Solve our problem with Mr. Sinclair, and I'll take a month off.
MTB: Not good enough.
Prison Warden: That's all I can offer, I'm sorry.
MTB: How about this? You know how there's that space around the exercise yard? You can set up cheap stadium seating there, and sell tickets for a match between MTB and an inmate. I could use one of my phonecalls to get a TV crew there. It'll make you a fortune, and you can give me freedom once I beat him.
The warden was nodding along, and I could see the pound signs flashing in his eyes. He extended his hand, beaming with joy. I looked up at the two guards and they nodded. I clasped his hand in mine for a solid handshake. The deal was on!
The match was scheduled for June 23rd, which definitely meant I wasn't available to be booked for Live-Wire, but it could mean I'd get to go and see Bon Jovi in concert after all! Scott quickly found out and started "training." I say training, more like beating up the other inmates. In fact, he beat one of them up so hard that they threw up into a sink, only for Scott to dunk the guy's head in his own vomit before ripping the sink off the wall and pouring it on him. I don't think I'd ever seen anything so disgusting. The warden wanted this situation sorted so much that I was flanked by guards wherever I went. They tested my food, which turns out to be better than hospital food and school dinners. Was this really a prison?
When it was cell time, I took the time to play the War Games match over and over again. The game had the most realistic AI and the computer knew exactly how to use Benny Starr, WBL and Christian Lee. They even did a fair job with my partners too, although they weren't of much use. Hopefully, I was able to spot trends in the AI and use it to scout my opposition in the match. I should be able to time everything just right to avoid and counter all of their special moves.
Finally, after nearly two weeks in the slammer the day came along. Seating had been set up and the place was packed. Scott and I were led into the cage by the guards and each of us were uncuffed. The guards held us back as the warden, who was refereeing the match, explained the rules to us.
Prison Warden: Okay, this is a fight to the finish. Anything goes. You can win by submission or knockout. May the best man win.
Scott Sinclair: Yah mate. Ah'll twa' 'im!
MTB: Ah, still got a grasp of the English language.
The guards let go and we lay into each other. No tie-ups here. No tie-ups or catch-as-catch-can in War Games. It's all brawl. I managed to create some distance from him but he just kept getting nearer. I moved nearer and nearer to the cage, luring him in. As my back got to the cage, Scott stopped.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh can't run yuh now fukin' coward! Yah!
He charged towards me and I ducked and hit him with a Drop Toe Hold, sending him face first into the mesh. I gripped him in a waist lock and hit a German Suplex. I quickly put him in a headlock and got in his face.
MTB: It's called a trap, you thick bastard. You fell for it twice.
He fought back with an elbow to my stomach when I realised something. He had acne on his back. A sure-fire sign of steroid use. Sure, they made you built to fuck, but they made you useless in a fight, and this guy would run out of breath easily. As soon as he was worn out, the real arse kicking would begin. Time to pull off the MTB-a-dope, like the rope-a-dope, only much more awesome.
I kept luring him in, catching him off-guard and throwing him into the cage before hitting him with whatever suplex that came to mind; basic, Brainbuster, German, Fisherman, Snap, you name it, I did it. The crowd were raucous from the excitement of the variety of my suplexes. No one had seen Scott Sinclair thrown around this much. Years of pent up frustration were going into this. Finally, I sinched in the Preysnatcher and before he could tap I nailed the Su-Prey. I lifted him again and went for a German Suplex, followed by a plain Suplex followed by a Fisherman Suplex. He may have been knocked out from The Suplex Machine but I wanted more. I lifted the dead-weight again, and buried him with a Belly-to-Belly Suplex, converted into a Bearhug- The MTBearhug! He came to slightly and began crying from the pain. As I locked it in tighter, I stared him straight in the eyes and spat in his battered and bloody face.
MTB: Who's crying now, bitch? Look who's so tough now without anyone to back him up! I'm MTB! Don't you forget it!
Still wailing in pain, he tapped out frantically and everyone around was on their feet cheering. The once-feared Scott Sinclair had been humbled by the big fat baby. Some guards dragged Scott along the sand towards the medical ward. I was free! July 1st, here we come, I was ready to lead my team into battle against the bullies! I was... being handcuffed? I was being dragged back to prison!? I caught the warden sneaking off.
MTB: HEY! WE HAD A DEAL!
The warden looked around cluelessly, acting as if he didn't know what I talking about.
MTB: ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF!? YOU SAID YOU'D SET ME FREE!
I couldn't hear what he said but I'm sure I saw him mouthing "solitary" at me. So I was only a part of the warden's game? Who did he think he was with his false promises? Nick Clegg? David Cameron? I played my part and he played his game. He gave war a bad name... As I was dragged towards the doors, they burst open and Sandy Strachon marched out with a piece of paper in his hand. Talk about a dramatic entrance. The warden ran over to him.
Sandy Strachon: Release him!
Prison Warden: Have you got a court order for that?
Sandy Strachon: Why d'ya think I have this in my hand?
Sandy waved the piece of paper in the warden's face. The warden's wrinkly nose screwed up with disgust. He waved the guards off and I was uncuffed. Sandy led me to the gates of the prison. I didn't look back. It may not have been the hardest time, but I was free. It took a moment for me to catch my breath. Being awesome at wrestling didn't take much out of me, but yelling at a conniving arsehole really did.
MTB: Thanks, Sandy. How'd you manage that?
Sandy Strachon: WBL isn't the only one who can bribe judges, ya know...
Sandy put an arm around me as we laughed at our success. My opponents had tried sidelining me with jail time. I may have played my part, and they may have played their games, but you can't buy anything against Sandy Strachon! He plays his games too. I'm sure James is worried that I won't be training in jail. I probably trained better IN prison than I could have out there. WBL, Benny Starr, Christian Lee and the Entourage may have thought I played my part, and they played their games, but come July 1st.. well let me express that in the way I sang it on the way out of the gates.
MTB: Shot through the heart! And you're to blame, darling you give war a bad name! I play my part and I'll play your games! You give war a bad name! MTB.... wins War Games!!!
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It was Monday 28th October 2002. The day was miserable. The blue of the sky hadn't been seen all month. All you could see were the dingy dark clouds that congested in the sky. At least, for a change, it hadn't been raining. I was 13 years old and... well a bit on the round side. I hated school so much. They used to play a game they liked to call "Brody Ball," where, you guessed it, was football (I refuse to call it soccer) with me as the ball. This particular Monday was one I'd been dreading all weekend. It had been UCW Halloween Hell 8 on Friday and my dad had just lost the UCW Championship to Oz Van Damn in a Ladderjack match after an eighteen-day reign. In case you're wondering, a Ladderjack match is self explanitory; it's a Ladder match mixed with a Lumberjack match. My dad only lost because the Intercontinental Champion, The Chuft Guy had interfered, but it was still one in the L column, and he was no longer the champion.
It was tough being the son of a famous wrestler. Ever since I was born, people expected me to follow in Marcus Brody's footsteps and get into wrestling. When I was little, errm, big, errm younger, all I wanted to do was teach Maths. It was something I excelled at. Wrestling never once came to mind. In fact, even though I enjoyed watching my dad and UCW's new top star, The Predator, I didn't want to wrestle. Unfortunately, I was expected to be a chip off the old block and all the kids at school expected me to fight like a wrestler. They always got a kick out of beating up the son of the Human Suplex Machine, and would even boast that they "battered Marcus Brody" as if I was my dad. I was too scared to tell him about it. I felt as if I was letting him down. It was always hell whenever he lost.
As I said before, I dreaded the day, but I dreaded nothing more than break time that day. I tried to stay inside but, of course, the teachers didn't care about me. I was bullied to shit yet they didn't even bat an eyelid. Here, the inmates ran the asylum. I was told to go outside and "enjoy the sun." Did they not care enough to even notice the dull weather? I nervously headed out to the yard, which was strewn with excessive amounts of litter. Dying trees lined the paths from the broad courtyard and graffitti covered the dirty, disgusting, decaying brick walls of the technology block. As per usual, as soon as I walked out, a group of lads turned their heads. One of them was Francis Todd, who you should be familiar with if you've been following me. If not, he's the guy I smashed in with a pool cue after finding that he was the one who wrecked Sam Strachon's marriage, and that I was snubbed from the Elimination Chamber. With him was their leader, who went by the name of Scott Sinclair. He was your typical crusty chav, with his buzz cut and gormless expression. Oh, and his poor excuse for a uniform. Somehow it was cool to wear ties at a very short length. Quite frankly, they looked ridiculous. And trackies with shoes? Really?
That tangent aside, they all glared at me before Scott and his posse swaggered over with a silly walk that was probably rejected by Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks. Seriously. It looked as if they were trying to walk on the moon. I tried to escape but before I could move a muscle I was surrounded by this pack of dogs, although that's offensive to dogs. These guys were worse. And you knew Scott was speaking when you heard a voice like a grunt.
Scott Sinclair: Ooooh ahhh! Marcus Brody!
I didn't respond. I wasn't going to acknowledge the existance of such a thing as him.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh no' sayin' ought, mate? 'Coz daddy's a loser?
Francis Todd: Yea! We saw it on Friday! OVD killed him!
Scott Sinclair: Yuh dad sucks dick, yah!
I should have just told them my dad didn't care what anyone thought of him, but I did. Insteadm I said something I'd later regret.
Marcus T. Brody:Why don't you try having a Ladderjack Match with Oz Van Damn? It's his speciality. And try having that match with Chuft Guy holding you down. I'm sure you'd lose too!
The pack of hyenas burst into howls laughter and slapped themselves on the back like they'd achieved something. Like they wanted my reaction. I tried backing away but the mob shoved me to the ground. I felt the gravel scratching at my knees as I dropped. The cackling died down and Scott seized me by my tie.
Scott Sinclair: Gud yuh said Brody. We wuh gonna play Brody Ball but yuh gimme summet more fun.
My bag was ripped off my back and flung onto a telephone wire connecting the technology block to the main block. One of the yobs had stolen a ladder from some decorators and had it set up. Francis had my arms held behind me as Scott got so close in my face I could smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh gonna 'ave a Ladderjack match with me. I'mma beat Marcus Brody!
Marcus T. Brody:[/b] For fuck's sake! I'm not my dad!
Scott Sinclair: Oooom! Marcus Brody swore! Shut it yuh fat fuck!
I don't remember much of this clearly, so pardon me if I'm a bit vague here. I'm sure I was punched in the face and hounded by the gaggle of hoodlums around me. Of course, I knew if I fought back, I'd be the one to get in trouble, that's how fucked up my school was. Soon I was thrown into Scott's foot and ate a Rockport in the face before I head was driven into one of the middle rungs of the ladder. I staggered backwards but Scott righted me by gripping my hair, pulling me towards his foul-stenched face.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh gonna cry yuh lard arse?
Tears were streaming down my face from the pain and the taunting. How could anyone have been this mean? These bullies... No one would do anything about it and I was too scared to tell my dad. The system had let me down so I had to take a stand.
Scott Sinclair:Ay look! Baby Brody's cryin'! What a crybaby! A big fat baby!
Everyone started chanting "Big fat baby" at me, I wanted to carry on crying so much but I had anyonther urge brewing in me. An urge for vengeance. My blood was boiling. I had to live up to the Brody name. I was letting my dad down. I had no idea what made me think of what I did next, it must have been instinct, but I moved my knee as fast as my doughy body would let me right into Scott's stomach. He stumbled back and no one could believe their eyes. Everyone took a few steps back. I ploughed my fist into my head as hard as I could until my blood was covering my right hand. I had no idea why I did that but the once rowdy audience were silent with fear. I picked up the ladder and growled at Scott as I bore into him with my watery blue eyes.
Marcus T. Brody: I'm a baby, heh? A BIG!? FAT!? BABY!?!!!!
He was quivering. But suddenly, he smiled at me cockily. Next thing I knew, I was grabbed from behind by my arms and forced to drop the ladder. I turned my head and saw it was a couple of teachers who had me. I don't remember much of it and I'm sure my wailing was inaudible but they were having none of it. As I was being dragged away, I caught sight of Francis holding the ladder for Scott who was on top holding my back whilst everyone was laughing at me. Scott in particular taunted me with my bag. Everyone knew I was the victim yet I was the one who was punished. I was punished for doing what all these anti-bullying campaigns tell us to do: stand up for ourselves, and everyone found it hilarious! The victim was being punished, yet the bullies were getting away with this scott-free, excuse the pun. I played my part and they played their game! And those inbred twats had won this battle. But they gave war a bad name. There's more to this story, but it's not relevant right now. I'll save it for another time.[/i]
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Now, you must be wondering why I'd take the time to tell that story, and I have good reason. Just think about it. There's some bullies. Their victim takes a stand and gets punished for it whilst the bullies get away with everything. Sounds familiar doesn't it? Jump forward over eight-and-a-half years to June 2011. This time the bullies were "Super" Benny Starr, "Wild" Bill Legend and their entourage. They would attack me during and after my matches, more than likely because they're either bitter from their loss to me at Genesis, or to soften me up before my War Games match with them and Christian Lee. What happened? They filed some lawsuit (more like paid someone to file a writ) that meant if either me or James Stall got physical with any of them unless in a match then whoever it was would be arrested. How cowardly. Hiding behind the suits, money and corrupting the law.
I was relieved when I found out I was going to be facing Benny on an episode of Live-Wire. I was going to get a chance to vent my frustrations out on at least one of them. But then I was worried they might get involved, so I had my agent, Sandy Strachon, get me Unknown for back-up. In the end, I chose to go alone once I found that Pain had banned everyone from ringside. So you'd think I'd have won the match, wouldn't you? After all I am far more talented than Benny Starr. Well the answer's no. During the match, I kept getting flashbacks to my school days, and the frustration built up until I snapped when I had the match won. I'd locked Benny in the Preysnatcher and was ready to hit the Su-Prey when it dawned on me. This felt really good. I clamped on more pressure and everything went black. I came to my senses in the locker room where Sandy greeted me with his eyebrows raised in concern.
Sandy Strachon: What was that. MTB?
I got up off the uncomfortable wooden bench and paced about for a moment before staring Sandy directly in the eyebrows.
MTB: Justice.
Sandy Strachon: And justice was worth missing out on yer winner's purse, was it? Ya coulda gone to jail MTB! Do ya want that with War Games coming up?
And then it clicked. I glanced over at a monitor and noticed that Christian Lee, Benny Starr and the Entourage were on the stage during Joe Stall's match with Sah'ta Thor. I opened my locker, pulled out the pool cue I'd been carrying around in case I needed an equalise and turned to Sandy.
MTB: How good's your legal team?
Sandy was startled. He had no idea how to react at first. He soon enough blurted out a response.
Sandy Strachon: The best.
MTB: That's all I need. Take my stuff with you. I'm not gonna need it where I'm goin'.
I stormed out of the locker room, down the washy corridors, and down to the arena whilst my music blared and the fans were on their feet. I hit the ring and near-enough broke my cue on everyone. Within a minute I was handcuffed by six police officers and stuffed into the back of a police car. And now we're at the part when I served time...
When I arrived, we went through the standard procedures of fingerprints, mugshot, issuing of prison clothes and whatnot. It was past lights out so I was taken straight to my cell. Everything was dark so I couldn't make much out. Weirdly, there was an actual door to my "cell" as opposed to bars and once it was locked I realised there was small barred window that barely let in any of the moonlight. I expected cold hard concrete under my feet but there was a fairly comfortable carpet. I felt a sink in front of me as I tried to find the bed. I eventually found my bed and collapsed onto it. I braced myself expecting to have dropped onto a rock, but no, it was actually softer than the beds in some of hotels I'd stayed in. Was this really what prison was like? I finally understood an article I'd seen a few weeks before about some men trying to break into a prison...
Morning came and a dim light seeped in, and I could finally see everything. There was a television! Yes, there was actually a TV in a prison! There was a Playstation 3 hooked up to it too. What the actual fuck? I took a moment to examine the stack of games that lay on the desk next to the TV. Thankfully "FWF: The Video Game" was amongst them. If I remembered right, it had the War Games match on it, and myself as a playable character. It may not have been the preparation I had in mind for War Zone, but it was preparation nonetheless.
Soon we were called out for what must have been the attendance check, to see if none of us had broken out. As they were checking games, I surveyed the area and checked the faces of the other inmates. Across the bridge, I spotted someone. Someone I hadn't seen for a few years. Some scumbag who had played games with me... Yes, now you know why I told that story from school before. One of the other inmates was...
Prison Guard: Sinclair, Scott!
Scott Sinclair: Here!
He looked almost exactly the same as he did in school. He had that gormless expression he wore everywhere, that same shaved head, that same crusty looking skin. This time, he was built like a brick shithouse. It was a build that many a wrestling promoter would coo over and clamour for. It was unnatural. As soon the stock check was taken, it was time to go to the exercise yard. I was guided through the doors by one of the guards and was pleased to see that this was more like what I had in mind. It was a spacious sandy floor enclosed in a 15-foot high steel cage with a roof on top. I'd guess from the size of it, were were looking at a 20 by 40 feet area. Coincidentally, that's the size of two rings placed side by side. And FWF WarZone uses those measurements, and a similar cage for the War Games match. Perfect conditions for training...
Once the door was locked, all the inmates were caged up. This was exactly what I'd been hoping for. No training was better than getting your mind in the game. And what a better way to get your mind into a cage-based game than being caged up? I sauntered around, gripping the cage to get a feel for it. I had to know my environment. I had to feel my environment. I turned around to a load of sand in my face and a fist to my stomach. I crumpled back against the cage as a familiar grunting sound entered my ears.
Scott Sinclair:Luk wat we 'ave 'ere. Big fat baby Brody ain't fat no more. 'n' he's in jail. Did yuh cry?
I could barely see Scott due to the sand in my eyes, so I couldn't see the punches he threw at me. Shouldn't the prison guards have stepped in by now? Moments later, the sand was clearing from my eyes, and my opportunity arose. I used my wrestling experience to duck, causing his hand to hit the cage. I spun behind him and hit a German Suplex, and within seconds the guards hounded me and dragged me off to the warden's office. I was led in and asked to sit down. The warden must have been in his sixties. His skin was darkening and sagging with age. A large pair of glasses rested on his nose, and thinning grey hair sat on top of his head. In fact, he reminded me of that guy with the montone voice who has bit-parts in "The Mask" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." So much that I half expected him to say "Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?"
Prison Warden: Brody? Brody?
Bloody hell, he even sounds like that guy...
Prison Warden: So why have you been brought here? I'm a busy man.
MTB: Well, Mr. Warden... I fought back against Scott Sinclair.
The warden flinched. So Scott was able to assert his bullying wrath on the prison as well? Someone really ought to have sorted him out by now.
Prison Warden: Do you honestly have a death wish?
MTB: No, not really. Why's everyone so afraid of him?
Prison Warden: Have you seen him? He's.. wait...
His eyes examined me inquisitively, then back to his papers, then back to me.
Prison Warden: You're not afraid of him?
MTB: Not anymore. He used to bully me in high school, but now, I'm sure you know who I am.
The warden took another look at the papers in front of him, and his eyes widened as if a lightbulb switched on in his head.
Prison Warden: Brody, Marcus Thomas... Marcus Brody! The wrestler? Aren't you a bit young?
He had to mention my dad, didn't he? Son of a Wrestler Syndrome strikes again! Can't I once get recognised for being MTB and not for being Marcus Brody Jr.?
MTB: No, I'm MTB, his son, and FWF Elite Tag Team Champion... Recognise?
Prison Warden: No, I don't watch wrestling anymore. But if you're a champion, why are you in here? Won't you lose your championship?
MTB: No, I shouldn't be in for long. I'm only in on civil charges. I'll be out in a week.
Prison Warden: Don't bank on that. It says here you'll be in for at least two months.
MTB: What!? But I have a title defence on July 1st! I have Bon Jovi tickets two weeks today!
Prison Warden: You'll have to let someone else have those... You're in for the long run.
MTB: Please, please, there's got to be something...
I leaned over the desk but the guards soon pulled me back into my seat. The warden pondered for a moment, twiddling his thumbs.
Prison Warden: There is one thing you could do for me.
MTB: What do you have in mind?
Prison Warden: Solve our problem with Mr. Sinclair, and I'll take a month off.
MTB: Not good enough.
Prison Warden: That's all I can offer, I'm sorry.
MTB: How about this? You know how there's that space around the exercise yard? You can set up cheap stadium seating there, and sell tickets for a match between MTB and an inmate. I could use one of my phonecalls to get a TV crew there. It'll make you a fortune, and you can give me freedom once I beat him.
The warden was nodding along, and I could see the pound signs flashing in his eyes. He extended his hand, beaming with joy. I looked up at the two guards and they nodded. I clasped his hand in mine for a solid handshake. The deal was on!
The match was scheduled for June 23rd, which definitely meant I wasn't available to be booked for Live-Wire, but it could mean I'd get to go and see Bon Jovi in concert after all! Scott quickly found out and started "training." I say training, more like beating up the other inmates. In fact, he beat one of them up so hard that they threw up into a sink, only for Scott to dunk the guy's head in his own vomit before ripping the sink off the wall and pouring it on him. I don't think I'd ever seen anything so disgusting. The warden wanted this situation sorted so much that I was flanked by guards wherever I went. They tested my food, which turns out to be better than hospital food and school dinners. Was this really a prison?
When it was cell time, I took the time to play the War Games match over and over again. The game had the most realistic AI and the computer knew exactly how to use Benny Starr, WBL and Christian Lee. They even did a fair job with my partners too, although they weren't of much use. Hopefully, I was able to spot trends in the AI and use it to scout my opposition in the match. I should be able to time everything just right to avoid and counter all of their special moves.
Finally, after nearly two weeks in the slammer the day came along. Seating had been set up and the place was packed. Scott and I were led into the cage by the guards and each of us were uncuffed. The guards held us back as the warden, who was refereeing the match, explained the rules to us.
Prison Warden: Okay, this is a fight to the finish. Anything goes. You can win by submission or knockout. May the best man win.
Scott Sinclair: Yah mate. Ah'll twa' 'im!
MTB: Ah, still got a grasp of the English language.
The guards let go and we lay into each other. No tie-ups here. No tie-ups or catch-as-catch-can in War Games. It's all brawl. I managed to create some distance from him but he just kept getting nearer. I moved nearer and nearer to the cage, luring him in. As my back got to the cage, Scott stopped.
Scott Sinclair: Yuh can't run yuh now fukin' coward! Yah!
He charged towards me and I ducked and hit him with a Drop Toe Hold, sending him face first into the mesh. I gripped him in a waist lock and hit a German Suplex. I quickly put him in a headlock and got in his face.
MTB: It's called a trap, you thick bastard. You fell for it twice.
He fought back with an elbow to my stomach when I realised something. He had acne on his back. A sure-fire sign of steroid use. Sure, they made you built to fuck, but they made you useless in a fight, and this guy would run out of breath easily. As soon as he was worn out, the real arse kicking would begin. Time to pull off the MTB-a-dope, like the rope-a-dope, only much more awesome.
I kept luring him in, catching him off-guard and throwing him into the cage before hitting him with whatever suplex that came to mind; basic, Brainbuster, German, Fisherman, Snap, you name it, I did it. The crowd were raucous from the excitement of the variety of my suplexes. No one had seen Scott Sinclair thrown around this much. Years of pent up frustration were going into this. Finally, I sinched in the Preysnatcher and before he could tap I nailed the Su-Prey. I lifted him again and went for a German Suplex, followed by a plain Suplex followed by a Fisherman Suplex. He may have been knocked out from The Suplex Machine but I wanted more. I lifted the dead-weight again, and buried him with a Belly-to-Belly Suplex, converted into a Bearhug- The MTBearhug! He came to slightly and began crying from the pain. As I locked it in tighter, I stared him straight in the eyes and spat in his battered and bloody face.
MTB: Who's crying now, bitch? Look who's so tough now without anyone to back him up! I'm MTB! Don't you forget it!
Still wailing in pain, he tapped out frantically and everyone around was on their feet cheering. The once-feared Scott Sinclair had been humbled by the big fat baby. Some guards dragged Scott along the sand towards the medical ward. I was free! July 1st, here we come, I was ready to lead my team into battle against the bullies! I was... being handcuffed? I was being dragged back to prison!? I caught the warden sneaking off.
MTB: HEY! WE HAD A DEAL!
The warden looked around cluelessly, acting as if he didn't know what I talking about.
MTB: ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF!? YOU SAID YOU'D SET ME FREE!
I couldn't hear what he said but I'm sure I saw him mouthing "solitary" at me. So I was only a part of the warden's game? Who did he think he was with his false promises? Nick Clegg? David Cameron? I played my part and he played his game. He gave war a bad name... As I was dragged towards the doors, they burst open and Sandy Strachon marched out with a piece of paper in his hand. Talk about a dramatic entrance. The warden ran over to him.
Sandy Strachon: Release him!
Prison Warden: Have you got a court order for that?
Sandy Strachon: Why d'ya think I have this in my hand?
Sandy waved the piece of paper in the warden's face. The warden's wrinkly nose screwed up with disgust. He waved the guards off and I was uncuffed. Sandy led me to the gates of the prison. I didn't look back. It may not have been the hardest time, but I was free. It took a moment for me to catch my breath. Being awesome at wrestling didn't take much out of me, but yelling at a conniving arsehole really did.
MTB: Thanks, Sandy. How'd you manage that?
Sandy Strachon: WBL isn't the only one who can bribe judges, ya know...
Sandy put an arm around me as we laughed at our success. My opponents had tried sidelining me with jail time. I may have played my part, and they may have played their games, but you can't buy anything against Sandy Strachon! He plays his games too. I'm sure James is worried that I won't be training in jail. I probably trained better IN prison than I could have out there. WBL, Benny Starr, Christian Lee and the Entourage may have thought I played my part, and they played their games, but come July 1st.. well let me express that in the way I sang it on the way out of the gates.
MTB: Shot through the heart! And you're to blame, darling you give war a bad name! I play my part and I'll play your games! You give war a bad name! MTB.... wins War Games!!!
Now time to get ready...