Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
Welcome to NEW ERA WRESTLING

Click Here To Get Started!


NEW World Heavyweight Champion: Romeo Stylez
NEW North American Champion: Frederick Grayson
NEW Television Champion: Nightmare
NEW Tag Team Champions: Evans & Murdoch

Abstract NEW Fact
After 219 shows and 1184 matches featuring 326 different superstars, NEWera has shut its doors. Thank you all.

View Our Updated Fact Sheet!




Upcoming NEW Cards
--

Last Show Results
Vindication V

Promo of the Moment
"Hot Pastrami" by Outkast

Quote of the Moment
“This meant something.” - Marc Martin

Welcome to NEWera Wrestling. We hope you enjoy your visit.


You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.


Join our community!


If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:

Username:   Password:
Add Reply
Drown the clown.
Topic Started: May 6 2010, 04:05 PM (207 Views)
Rex Cleeveej
Unregistered

Now, we normally would expect something half-assed about how Rex Cleeveej would be bounding about...clomping around, grunting to himself, and how a foul odor would make people wretch things that they ate six years ago – something worse than a colonic irrigation.

...Why would this be any different?

Both Amba Lamps and Tom Slick were bareknuckle boxing each other inside a rundown gym, while Cleeveej sat staring at an inflatable Bozo the Clown with an old picture of Timothy Chucklington taped on it. After about five minutes, Slick and Lamps stopped boxing to look over at Cleeveej, who was transfixed on the inflatable knockaround punchbag.


Tom Slick
“The hell's your problem?”

Rex Cleeveej
“I fucking hate clowns.”

Tom Slick
“You're scared of clowns?”

Rex Cleeveej
“NO, BITCH. I JUST FUCKING HATE THEM. FUCKING PARADING AROUND WITH FACEPAINT, THE HAIR...”

Amba makes the motion of the Ronald McDonald 'M' before silently laughing at Rex.

Tom Slick
“Fuck yeah. You consume them fucking burgers like it ain't a fuckin' problem.”

Rex stumbles up and then delivers a stiff right to the jaw of Amba, knocking him to the ground in a heap.

Tom Slick
“Ah, you cheap FUCK! I been working on him for twenty-five minutes, and you finish it off?”

Rex Cleeveej
“SHUTUP, BITCH. I SAID I FUCKING HATED CLOWNS.”

Rex punches the inflatable Bozo the Clown. It topples over, but goes to an upright position. He punches it again, as hard as he can, and it topples from front to back, before returning to an upright position. Rex, irate, decides to just jump ontop of the fucking thing, and with a very loud 'POP', the inflatable clown explodes, and a pile of sand from the bottom comes pouring out.

Tom Slick
“JESUS FUCK! You owe me eight dollars for that fucking thing, you cocksucker.”

Rex Cleeveej
“NO MORE FUCKING CLOWN SHIT!”

Tom Slick
“What-the-fuck-ever, man. You still owe me eight fucking dollars.”

Rex picks up the picture of Chucklington from the now deflated 'body', and rips it into about twenty-five tiny pieces.

Rex Cleeveej
“FUCK YOU, CLOWN.”

Tom Slick
“Yeah, that son of a bitch was born at the bottom, and kept going downhill.”

Amba had started to come around, and stood up.

Tom Slick
“Welcome back, you pussy. Remember who worked you over before Rex nailed you down. ME. So, I won that shit. Give me twenty dollars, man.”

Amba delivered a firm middle finger to Tom, who kicked the floor and grunted. Rex clenched his fists.

Rex Cleeveej
“Did you ever wonder what life would have been like for this fuck if he had enough oxygen at birth?”

Tom Slick
“When the fuck did you start saying some profound shit?”

Rex Cleeveej
“THAT WAS NOT PROFOUND. I WAS SAYING SOME SHIT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER.”

Tom stood tall.

Tom Slick
“YEAH. I AM A MOTHERFUCKER. SO WHAT, TUBBO? YOU PISSED AT ME BECAUSE YOUR LIFEGUARD CALLED OFF FROM DUTY FOR YOUR CEREAL BOWL?”

Rex Cleeveej
“FUCK YOU!”

Rex fires a few shots off at Slick, all of which connect in the chest. Slick fires back with a shot of his own. Cleeveej absorbs it in his massive bulky head, and delivers a stiff shot to Slick, who staggers and falls before getting right up, laughing.

Tom Slick
“Shit. Amba, don't let this fucker fool you. He doesn't know the meaning of the word 'fear'...though, shit, he don't know the meaning of alotta words.”

Amba laughs for a second before pointing to his own temple, then to Rex, then miming boxing.

Tom Slick
“Yeah, what-the-fuck-ever, man. I said we'd fuckin' get to it, you mute cunt. Rex, your brain out of a burger coma yet?”

Rex nodded, but only dimwittedly...his eyes still a bit blank, focusing out of the corner of his eye at the deflated clown bag. He looks back at Slick and Amba, who were standing side-by-side like drill sergeants who had brand-new intelligence on an enemy.

Tom Slick
“Alright, numbnuts. Clearly, you're too fat and heavy for him to be able to lift up – even if he's got them broad-ass shoulders. He's gonna come at you stiff and heavy. Punches, a lot of ground-based shit. You can absorb most of what he throws, either in your fat or your bucket of a head. He'll probably be fuckin' pissed after like two minutes, so when you get the chance, you start hitting him as hard as you fucking can. He hits you with a kick, you short-uppercut the fuck in the stomach. If you have to, punt him in the balls. Spit in his eyes. You do whatever the fuck you have to, 'cuz he sure as fuck will.”

Rex's eyes were once again transfixed on the deflated balloon. Tight-lipped, fists clenched, and the veins in his temples clearly protruding. Tom walked behind Rex and planted a stiff football punt right into Rex's ass, but he remained in his trance-like state. One could almost call it comatose, because there was a bit of dribbling, except his breathing became heavier as he watched the deflated clown's smile seemingly mock him from the ground.

No matter what he did, it fucking smiled. It grinned. It lied through its teeth about pain. It hid behind a mask that, despite showing a face, it still didn't have the balls to stand-up and not look like a failure from a seventh-grade fashion show. It wouldn't show the fact that it lived life. It covered it up. It made fun of him. It mocked who he was. He didn't care about the fat jokes – everyone did it. People didn't factor that with his size came the strength he had – he wasn't one of those weak fat chumps that roam around the buffets.

But this clown.

Any clown.

It was all a big joke. N.E.W. Wouldn't even take him seriously, so they booked him with a clown that liked to hurt people.

Hadn't he read about some guy named Gacy doing something like this? Was it that original? Was he supposed to scare him?

Why couldn't he say what was on his mind? When he tried, it was a jumble of words, or yelling. It frustrated him – all these people of such sophistication, yet he was trapped within his own head...destined to only think what was going on, and never able to convey it.

That was the fuel for most of the fire. The rest came from the idiots who wanted to be the dry tinder and burn up real fast from the roaring fire.

But that clown. The one that laughed incessantly in the past. He had seen him before, but didn't bother with him. Clowns were supposed to be funny, but so many people used the paint to cover themselves up. They hid something. What were they afraid of? What was so bad that they had to paint themselves up, dress ridiculous, and drive them to the brink of such insanity that it became a way of life to be like this? Had they lost so much of themselves that their physical identity had become lost within their own mentality? Had Chucklington died on the inside? To Rex, Timothy Chucklington had become nothing more than a walking corpse of someone in the past who probably was worth a damn. Now, with only half the face-paint, trying to pass as half decent...it only made him stand out further as an outcast. Someone who wouldn't excel, but would be destined to go in a circle with what he did, and never really gain direction. He'd ultimately spiral downward.

It was supposed to be scary.

He wasn't afraid. He was angry. Angry he couldn't get the words that rushed in his head out on paper OR when speaking. He was mad because he thought someone saw this as a big joke. He was mad because he knew that Chucklington would be so delusional, he would see it as a walk in the park. His teeth clenched tigher, to where he felt the ball around each of the jaw joints protrude, as if it were to pop. As he lessened, he felt a further rush of blood to the head, and it showed through his face. He hadn't noticed the screaming from Slick, the four punts, in succession, into his rear, or Amba waving in his face.

Then, the idea struck Amba as to how to get Rex's attention. He ran off, and three minutes later, returned to have various bits of makeup caked onto his face. He jumped in front of Rex, dancing around.


Tom Slick
“Where the FUCK did you get makeup?”

Rex Cleeveej
“I fucking hate clowns.”

Tom Slick
“Yeah, no shit, we heard you before, lard ass. You wanna stop looking at the fucking balloon and listen? Did you hear a word I fucking told you, man? Goddamnit, you're gonnna get you-...”

Rex Cleeveej
“FUCK. YOU. CLOWN!!!!”

Rex reached out, grabbed Amba by the shirt, and dragged him over to an old slop sink. He turned both water knobs on, and the sink rapidly filled. Amba struggled, but Rex had a death grip.

Rex didn't see Amba in makeup. He saw another mockery, dancing in front of him. Mocking his own intelligence, trapped inside of his head – never to be revealed to the rest of the world. It mocked how they could so easily hide from what has happened in their lives behind some make-up, while he bore the scars on his face and body. The wear and tear of life had clearly shown on his body – who was he to hide it? It was a badge. It was proof you were alive. Why cover it up?

Rex uppercut Amba a few times in the stomach. The sink, now entirely filled, was overflowing. Rex grabbed the head of Amba, and forced his head under the water. Amba continually struggled, but couldn't escape the grip. His feet kicked wildly in the air, and Tom realized Rex wasn't going to let up. He grabbed a wooden two-by-four and whacked it across the chest of Rex, breaking the hold on Amba, who sputtered and dropped to the floor...the make-up entirely washed off. Rex fell on his ass, and looked at Amba, transfixed.

The make-up was gone, and an identity was revealed again. The anger began to subside as he realized exactly who it really was. Someone reborn out from underneath color made-up from dead fish and vibrant colors.


Tom Slick
“FUCK, MAN. You almost killed him. Why can't you have that goddamned anger all the time?”

Tom may never get it. Maybe it was the Vietnam that had fucked with his brain so much that he thinks everyone should be angry at the world all the time. But, if that was the case, why wasn't Amba more of an aggressor? He was in a special ops division in Vietnam. Was it because he lost his voice, he didn't feel the need to be violent? He never seemed to ever show a bit of aggression. Was it the more we lost physically, the more we decided to change about ourselves?

What did Chucklington lose to become what he is?

Rex didn't want to find out.


Rex Cleeveej
“I blacked out.”

Tom Slick
“That's the kind of shit you need to do when you fight this guy. There ain't gonna be no fuckin' water in the ring, so if you gotta, sit on top of the fuck and suffocate him. Drown him in fat...sweat, whatever the fuck you gotta do. Have him choke on that nasty ass of yours. Don't think this is a time where whatever the fuck you got called a conscience in you can say 'fight fair'. If he could, he'd walk right out with a gun, a knife, whatever, and end you right there. You want that shit?”

Why was Tom so angry? Why was he so concerned about his well-being about this match in particular? Was it because of his opponent's past?

Rex Cleeveej
“...No.”

Tom Slick
“Alright then, son. Now you're getting the fuckin' idea. It makes enough sense for you now?”

Rex nodded. He knew if he said anything, he'd have another long-winded speech with a lot of “fucks” and “mans” thrown in there for good measure. It would be pointless.

But Amba.

Amba's face said it all.

It said a thousand words with just a couple of looks.

He'll be cheap, he'll be dirty. You do the same.

You get kneed in gut, you punch him in the teeth.

He wants to go mental, you black out and unleash some fury.

Do what you did to me.

You know that if you want to be noticed, you can't hold back.

You know you're smart. I can see it at times in your own eyes.

You're trapped in your head.

You're like me. You can't say what's on your mind.

Let your actions speak, and let this lanky motherfucker jabber on.


It was clear what Rex was going to have to do – even if it wasn't in the most literal sense.

Drown the clown.
Quote Post Goto Top
 
1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)
« Previous Topic · NEWtv 6 · Next Topic »
Add Reply