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The Night Before; - XXVI VII MMXV-
Topic Started: Jul 26 2015, 04:30 PM (85 Views)
Canary Kid
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The Night Before- XXVI VII MMXV-

BRUNSWICK: Of course as some of you may know, Clash of the Titans is tomorrow night...

... but boy have we had a great night tonight!


__________


Two sweaty bodies wrangle together, exhausted and aching to their very bones. Beads roll down their individual foreheads, their deep eye contact never breaking for even a moment. The two men have waged an extraordinary war, but ultimately one must be defeated. One of these soldiering stars, a certain Aaron Parker, is notably making his main roster debut... and in no circumstance is he letting himself become the defeated.

He executes a flurry of fists to the head of his opposing number, the infamous Jester C. Jackal. The blue-haired cruiserweight splutters after every smack; already one can tell Jackal is coming to the end of his tether. His lungs struggle to push out air and his legs are concentrated with battery acid. He flails his arms about, praying to land at least one stray hit onto the pumped rookie. Of course, Parker would be having none of that.

The TNG regular seizes hold of a swinging Jackal fist and clutches it tightly; in the process of doing so, he digs his own clenched fist into the gut of the Ohio native. Jackal doubles over, evidently winded after taking a touch too many of those in the course of the bout. The Bostonian follows up with a swift boot to the sternum, knocking a wincing Jackal straight onto his knees. Breathing heavily, Jackal wishes for a pause, a respite to stop this stampede from the rookie brawler.

That never comes. The punishment never stops.

Parker clenches the kneeling Jackal by the top of his blue skull, hoisting him away from the mat. The Bostonian, with all 182 lbs of might in his body, hurls Jackal onto his shoulders. A few scattered cheers emanate from the audience; the TNG faithful know what's to come.

BRUNSWICK: Oh boy Doug, this is it!

SMITH: Is it though? Jackal's a seasoned vet, Parker is just a newbie. Nothing more than a rook!

BRUNSWICK: Just watch, Doug! Parker's got him, and he must be about to wrap it all up!

bang!

One could never tell if Jester C. Jackal had been stabbed before. Not that it is an impossibility, but one would assume he would not understand the feeling of sharp metal piercing through you. Yet the Double Knee Gutbuster that Parker exhibits must surely be as close as you can get; two exposed knees straight to the stomach with unthinkable force. Needless to say, the Jester is done. The joust is finished. Parker wastes no time and, without haste, dives onto the lifeless body beneath him.

ONE...
TWO...
THREE!


The bell tolls to call an end to all the violence. Aaron Parker, "The Loose Pistol", victorious in his first main roster bout. The sweet taste of success overrides Parker, who in all his tired glory still manages to find a shred of energy to jump in celebration.

SAGET: Here's your winnerrrr... in his FIRST PRW contest... Aaron "The Loooose Pistoool" Parkerrrr!

BRUNSWICK: And folks, we may just be looking at the future of PRW!

SMITH: Does your phone have wi-fi out here, Josh? You might want to quickly look up the definition for "hyperbole". Just saying.

Parker raises his arms high, an ecstatic smile plastered over his battered mug. He had done it. He had come straight onto the main roster, and won in the process. He had prayed for at least a good showing, but tonight, the Loose Pistol achieved more than just that. Tonight, he is a winner. A champion (without the gold). A predator. The prey.

The prey?

I SHOOT THE LIGHTS OUT
HIDE 'TIL IT'S BRIGHT OUT


BRUNSWICK: Oh no...

Immediately the crowd explodes. Not this again? The snarl from Bon Iver crackles once more from the speakers, just like it did several nights before in Birmingham. Of course, who could forget what happened that night? The newly-signed Bek Teutem, giddy from the moment he stepped foot into the ring for the first time, fell victim to an awful assault; the assailant shrouded in a white mask. Bek was nothing more than a rookie, much like Parker himself. New blood for the monster to feast on.

Parker halts his celebration and instantly his smile collapses. Unlike the fallen before him, Parker can anticipate what's next. That music? From that night? All of PRW knew of the attack. The roster was miserable. They had all heard that the assailant was a contracted PRW wrestler; they just had no idea who.

BRUNSWICK: What is he doing back here?

SMITH: Oh gee, Josh, who knows?! Maybe he's here to congratulate Parker on his well-deserved victory, eh? Use some sense.

Much like before, the stage begins to smoke up and the lights dim out. The Loose Pistol menacingly glares at the stage, then turns towards the side demanding assistance. "Are you really going to let this happen?" Not to be intimidated, Parker readies for the impending arrival of the latest terror on the PRW roster. He puts up his swollen fists, beckoning the miscreant to come forth. He yells at the stage until his throat goes hoarse. That's when she appears again.

Out steps the feminine figure from that tragic night in Birmingham, clouded by the thick smoke on the stage. Her walk is authoritative, commanding and controlling; yet, there's a spice to it. A certain swagger that seems almost irresistible...

Not to Parker, though. Parker stands firm as the silhouette signals towards him, refuting all advances the mysterious female makes. That was Bek's fatal mistake, and the Bostonian is not prepared to let himself do the same.

LADY: If you don't come to the beast, the beast will come to you.

Lacking a microphone unlike the lady before him, Parker persists shouting through the hoarseness in his voice. "Oh yeah? Bring him out then! I don't give a shit. I'm no pussy."

Last words to forever be trapped within history. At least you know Parker went down fighting.

thump!

The Bostonian hurtles towards the floor, a sudden incredible pain torturing the backside of head. After stifling an almighty howl, Parker shuffles away and to his feet, where his eyes meet those of the monster before him. The rookie's face is stuck in a grimace, a pained wince, to which the man in the white ski mask snickers at.

Parker steps forward, shaking somewhat from all the abuse delivered tonight, and swings for the mysterious intruder with his right hand. The smack is narrowly avoided, but the resilient rookie comes back at him with a left. The masked man is struck, yet does not even stumble. Instead, he returns his own hook, clocking Parker directly on the jaw. This time, Parker cannot contain his groan as he shudders at the impact. He jumps back before popping the masked man... but he's merely poking the beast.

The masked mystery persists with the hooks, refusing to hold back on Parker. Fist by bearish fist, the assailant begins to take the upper hand. The fatigue sets in on Parker, already knackered from his first PRW bout. He begins to falter, with every strike sending him closer and closer to the mat. With a great blow to the skull, the masked man drops Parker to the side and onto his knees; just as one had done to Jester C. Jackal minutes before.

The attacker strides backwards, sizing up his prey that knelt before him. He licks his lips, eyes steady with concentration. A second later, the underside of his white boot shunts straight into the skull of the battered rookie. Parker thuds against the canvas, inside praying for his torture to come to an end. Alas, good things, such as freedom from a cowardly attack by a man concealing his identity, come to those who wait; in this instance, Parker knew there was more yet to come.

BRUNSWICK: This is dreadful, I genuinely feel sick. Won't somebody stop this?

SMITH: I've been in this company for a long, long time... I can tell you now, nobody is going to stop this.

As the ski mask-clad aggressor opens the floodgates on a lifeless Parker, the silhouette from the stage begins to strut towards the ring; her face finished with a fine, wry smile. Her skin is dark, yet pale too, and her black hair full of volume. Despite being adorned in an oversized camo jacket, as she tiptoes up the ring-steps the crowd is blessed with the sight of her figure. She almost serves as a distraction to the horrible display of violence in the ring. Almost.

SMITH: I don't know about the ski mask, but that boy right there knows how to pick a woman.

BRUNSWICK: Doug, please. You're already on your final warning.

With the crowd already resigned to watching a helpless Aaron Parker be manhandled like that, the arena effectively falls into silence. Patrons begin to escape to the toilet, or for snacks, not wishing to endure another second of this pathetic display of cowardice. Yet, the sweet voice of the jacketed lady interrupts the quiet, freezing the feet of those exiting.

LADY: Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you... Decaaadeee!

next: cottxi

(kudos to Carlos for letting me use Aaron Parker!)
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