Post by "The" Ross Walker on Aug 4, 2011 15:58:01 GMT
You know what? I might as well start the excuses early this week.
I didn’t want this match, I only agreed to do it to keep the oh-so mysterious FWF Board of Directors happy, since I do have a World title shot still banked from last year, and I know how easily they “forget” about these things. The amount of title shots and favours I’ve bled for over the years but never received is honestly beyond all comprehension. So, when somebody new (or old) decides to flex their proverbial muscles backstage, I understand that there’s a certain degree of appeasement necessary to ensure I get what’s rightfully mine. I never used to give a shit about authority, but as I get older and more mature, I’ve come to understand the benefit of keeping them happy. Ross Walker, mature. Scary thought, right?
Anyway, to keep the board happy, even though I could have had a full week off to prepare for Jealousy, I took this Live-Wire match against some new guy, Roman Mason. Now, I don’t really care for the philosophy of “oh, he’s new and I’ve never heard of him, I’ll fuck him up in seconds” because it’s came back to bite me in the arse several times in the past. But I honestly don’t know a thing about this guy other than his name, height, weight and hometown.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me, and I’d just prepare as diligently as possible, safe in the knowledge that I’m one of the best in the world and can take anyone on my day, but there’s another caveat to this particular contest. I’ve been ill. All fucking week. I mean, who gets the flu in fucking August? I’ve been barely able to breathe, and have cough syrup coming out of my arse right now. I’m so high on Beechams hot lemon and honey that I can hardly see in front of me. But still, I’ve got to go to work.
Work, unfortunately, includes interviews. I can get through sit-down press conferences alright by just looking bored and nodding along, because that’s all anyone ever expects of me at those things. However, it’s the Linda Myles special that I’ll struggle with. I can breathe properly again, my nose has pretty much stopped running, but I still feel a little run down, and as anyone who spends an extended time around me can tell you, my level of tolerance is much lower when I’m ill.
Oh fuck, here she comes now, she’s gonna stick that camera right in my face and…
“Hey Ross, how are you?”
Fucking terrible. But I’ll do the old perfunctory smile and nod anyway.
“Not too bad, thanks. Can we get on with this? I’m hungry.”
No, that was not an invitation to dinner. No matter how much you wish to fuck me again, Linda, you cannot possibly see that as an invitation to dinner. Just set it all up and get going, there’s a good girl.
“This is Linda Myles, and I’m here with the winner of the 2010 Jealousy tournament, and competitor in the current tournament, “The” Ross Walker.”
“You could have mentioned my Blizzard win, Linda.”
Just saying.
“So Ross, this week, you’re up against FWF newcomer, “Made” Roman Mason. Mason is a mysterious competitor, and not much is known about his background, so how do you go about preparing for this kind of match?”
Whoa, hold on. Is that really his name?
“Linda, please tell me you’re joking about that nickname. “Made”? Kid, I’ve seen the Sopranos, is that really what you’re trying to go for? If it is, you’re starting with the wrong guy, because you could put a bullet through my fucking head and I’ll still make it out of the woods before you. Even on my worst day, I am a finely tuned machine who will tear you limb from limb, and then go home and fuck your wife if she’s even half-decent looking.”
Thank fuck Linda isn’t married to any of the FWF “warriors”. That one would be awkward.
“You know what? I’m not even gonna give this piece of shit the time of day. I have more important things to deal with, like winning Jealousy and finally getting the championship that is rightfully mine. I believe that’s three fines I have to pay today, Linda, I bid you farewell.”
Did I really just blow my shit over a pathetic nickname? That might be a first. Roman Mason, watch out. I’m coming.
I didn’t want this match, I only agreed to do it to keep the oh-so mysterious FWF Board of Directors happy, since I do have a World title shot still banked from last year, and I know how easily they “forget” about these things. The amount of title shots and favours I’ve bled for over the years but never received is honestly beyond all comprehension. So, when somebody new (or old) decides to flex their proverbial muscles backstage, I understand that there’s a certain degree of appeasement necessary to ensure I get what’s rightfully mine. I never used to give a shit about authority, but as I get older and more mature, I’ve come to understand the benefit of keeping them happy. Ross Walker, mature. Scary thought, right?
Anyway, to keep the board happy, even though I could have had a full week off to prepare for Jealousy, I took this Live-Wire match against some new guy, Roman Mason. Now, I don’t really care for the philosophy of “oh, he’s new and I’ve never heard of him, I’ll fuck him up in seconds” because it’s came back to bite me in the arse several times in the past. But I honestly don’t know a thing about this guy other than his name, height, weight and hometown.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me, and I’d just prepare as diligently as possible, safe in the knowledge that I’m one of the best in the world and can take anyone on my day, but there’s another caveat to this particular contest. I’ve been ill. All fucking week. I mean, who gets the flu in fucking August? I’ve been barely able to breathe, and have cough syrup coming out of my arse right now. I’m so high on Beechams hot lemon and honey that I can hardly see in front of me. But still, I’ve got to go to work.
Work, unfortunately, includes interviews. I can get through sit-down press conferences alright by just looking bored and nodding along, because that’s all anyone ever expects of me at those things. However, it’s the Linda Myles special that I’ll struggle with. I can breathe properly again, my nose has pretty much stopped running, but I still feel a little run down, and as anyone who spends an extended time around me can tell you, my level of tolerance is much lower when I’m ill.
Oh fuck, here she comes now, she’s gonna stick that camera right in my face and…
“Hey Ross, how are you?”
Fucking terrible. But I’ll do the old perfunctory smile and nod anyway.
“Not too bad, thanks. Can we get on with this? I’m hungry.”
No, that was not an invitation to dinner. No matter how much you wish to fuck me again, Linda, you cannot possibly see that as an invitation to dinner. Just set it all up and get going, there’s a good girl.
“This is Linda Myles, and I’m here with the winner of the 2010 Jealousy tournament, and competitor in the current tournament, “The” Ross Walker.”
“You could have mentioned my Blizzard win, Linda.”
Just saying.
“So Ross, this week, you’re up against FWF newcomer, “Made” Roman Mason. Mason is a mysterious competitor, and not much is known about his background, so how do you go about preparing for this kind of match?”
Whoa, hold on. Is that really his name?
“Linda, please tell me you’re joking about that nickname. “Made”? Kid, I’ve seen the Sopranos, is that really what you’re trying to go for? If it is, you’re starting with the wrong guy, because you could put a bullet through my fucking head and I’ll still make it out of the woods before you. Even on my worst day, I am a finely tuned machine who will tear you limb from limb, and then go home and fuck your wife if she’s even half-decent looking.”
Thank fuck Linda isn’t married to any of the FWF “warriors”. That one would be awkward.
“You know what? I’m not even gonna give this piece of shit the time of day. I have more important things to deal with, like winning Jealousy and finally getting the championship that is rightfully mine. I believe that’s three fines I have to pay today, Linda, I bid you farewell.”
Did I really just blow my shit over a pathetic nickname? That might be a first. Roman Mason, watch out. I’m coming.