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M9.5: Art McLellan's Promo Spot
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Topic Started: Feb 6 2009, 05:00 PM (375 Views)
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Professional
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Feb 6 2009, 05:00 PM
Post #1
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Smitty Werbenjagermanjensen
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This is a segment reserved for use by Art McLellan.
Nobody other than who Art specifies may appear in character to the segment. Failure to comply will result in administrative action.
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Retired Co-Founder of Professional RPG Wrestling Undisputed Champion of Internet Wrestling (1) PRW European Champion (1) PRW Cyanide Champion (3) Win-Loss-Draw: 15-7-2
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Heavy Metal Hero
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Feb 21 2009, 05:48 AM
Post #2
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Fuck updating things.
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The ring is cleared out at the conclusion of the International Championship contest, with the crowd sated after a night of carnage. They have only one match left to anticipate, the hot Undisputed Championship match between Hutton Brown and Gunnar Wuher.
However, that will have to wait.
The PRWtron goes to static, with crackling that generates a dischordant cacophony of sound. Many patrons grasp their ears, clutching at them like so many squriming children. Feed cuts, to a scene wrought with dusky decorum. A small wooden chair, painted robin's-egg blue, sitting in the middle of a shed. The floor is weathered pine, with muddy bootprints traveling in every direction, both to and from the chair.
On shelves, candles of various statures allow the room to gently glow, with the collective heat of dozens of tea lights, coloured nubs, and even fresh towers casting competitive shadows on top of one another. Art McLellan aimlessly stacks nine black paint cans in the corner, forming a pyramid against the wall.
He turns to face the camera, his black, spiked leather jacket sending miniature flares from the chrome on the shoulders with every fluttering flame it passes. The wrists are trimmed in a dark green, and the former Undisputed Champion is shirtless, showcasing a battle-worn body: hairy, scarred, not toned and unpleasant.
He sits on the chair, tight black jeans stretching as he squats over the diminutive article. They are tucked into his laced-up, knee-height boots. Art's knees come up to his chest, with the PRW superstar looking small as the camera peers down on him from atop a table. He folds his hands in front of his spread legs, resting his elbows on his knees, and allows his bangs to fall into his face. The gray is showing amply in his roots, with the salt-and-pepper effect dying out as soon as it hits the line where his hair was dyed.
"'Boast not thyself of tomorrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth,' Proverbs 27:1. I'm no religious man, not by a long shot, but if there is one thing that the scripture has shown in my lifetime, it is that there are leaders, and there are followers. There are many of each, and at times, the leader must be content to follow another, while often, the follower must choke back his bile when responsibility has been thrust upon him. This is the status quo that man will witness as he trudges through his daily tribulations, but life would be as dull as the wits of those simple men if there was nothing more or less."
"That is the very place where the paradigm is broken, you see; there are some, rare instances in crowds thousands strong, when one man steps forward, not content to follow, nor inclined to lead; one person who is special, in one way or another, who blazes their own trail independant of that status quo. It is that one person who will be remembered in a capacity greater than 'just one of the throng:'"
"That man, you see, has what it takes to become a God."
McLellan bows his head into the cavity formed by his arms, looking withered in body and soul. His hair hangs down, obscuring him into a dark figure, with candlelight setting his leather shell aglow.
"At Frostbite, I entered the ring with one JR Judy. To be fair, the kid gave me a better match than I expected. He has all the talent he needs as a wrestler, and he wrestles a mean game indeed. I never thought for one second that I would lose at my own game, but JR Judy did indeed pin me in that ring, for the world to see. He overcame one of the greatest wrestlers this company has ever known, and for that, I commend him."
"Just now, I'm sure you all have finished watching him put away two much less imposing competitors, Jason Garrick and Sean Aries. These are two men who I have personally beaten in matches while barely breaking a sweat, so I am fairly confident in that prediction. It couldn't possibly match up to the contest that myself and Judy had, that is a fact."
"But, as every person attending Frostbite knew, JR Judy was independent of my ends. I stepped into that ring solely to send a message to one Lion Merteuil, and up until this moment, that message has been woefully underappreciated. However, my purpose was served, because I saw the look in Lion's eyes at the end of that match..."
McLellan lifts his head, craning it upward with his shoulders slumped, a ghoulish grin plastered across his face.
"...JR Judy rolled off of me, with fanfare blaring, absolutely enamoured that he overcame such an obstacle to retain his championship. There were many words, poorly chosen, describing me as a washed-up has-been, but I know, as JR Judy knew, that there was something more to that match. JR Judy could not admit it, lest he break his fragile facade, that that win was worth more than any thousands of Spardises or Samuel Hales."
"With that simpering, snot-nosed brat basking in the cascading adulation of the moment, his whore only just holding back from mounting him, his mentor showering him with approval, all was right with the picture. Then, the paradigm was broken. Something changed: the picture in the frame went from a study of industry dynamics to a spot-the-differences in one benign motion."
"With little more than a cough, as fleeting as a whisper, I got to my feet, and walked away from the entire fucking circlejerk."
"With the shredded sinews of my stripped shoulder notwithstanding, I stood up, like Death standing tall at the foot of Judy's bed, poised to end it all with my steel sidearm! But, that was not my message. A warrior's end was not what JR Judy was wont to receive. It would not have been worth the effort to finish him off, for good, like the impotent, simpering child he is."
"What I proved in that ring, Lion, is that nothing you can throw at me can ever keep me down. Not you, not JR Judy, not any man or army on this planet has what it takes to lay me to rest. Whether you are convinced that I'm worth your time, whether I have penetrated the shield of self-delusion that permeates the air about you, I can not yet be sure. All I can be sure of is that, like me, you are enjoying every minute of this."
McLellan sits up straight, stretching his shoulders, and cracking his neck to the side. He smiles broadly, folding his palms in his lap as he continues.
"You've played me a few times thusfar, trying to pry into my psyche, and it is commendable how far you have gotten. However, while you try to forget the past, try to force me away with your assertions that I've lost my edge, you only serve to prove your inner loathing. Lion, I've beaten you, have you forgotten? There aren't many men living today who have accomplished that, and none in the grand fashion I achieved. But, month after month, you play on the defensive, trying to avoid me until you feel that the time is right. PRW, do you follow? Let me break it down on a timeline for you."
McLellan holds up his hand, with one finger extended, as if to begin counting.
"One: Christmas Carnage. Lion Merteuil shocks the world with his return as Sniper's partner, for the sole purpose of taking out my protege. It caught me off guard, but ultimately, it was what I had been hoping for for some time. You said that if your name was called enough, you were going to come, Lion Merteuil, so how could I not oblige your generous offer?"
"Two: Frostbite. I had everything set up for a big match with Lion, but somehow, the man's yearly vacation time was solidly booked over the date of the show, making a match impossible. He then goaded me into a match with his own protege, which I was glad to accept. I wasn't exceptionally surprised by Lion being Judy's mentor. It was a fair gambit, so I allowed myself to play into your hand, Lion."
"Number three is where we get tricky. Way back in 2008, I placed in the Masters of the Mat tournament, and earned a prize that was called the "blank cheque:" I was allowed to book any match I wanted, with anybody, as long as it wasn't for a championship belt. I had all the papers ready, Lion, but you balked. You broke that contract, one that was supposed to be airtight, just to avoid a match with me! Do I truly terrify you that much, you sniveling cub? That you would turn and run, tail betwixt legs, to earn yourself one more chance at dodging me?"
"It doesn't matter, though, because now you are out of options. Your play has been cunning thusfar, Lion, but you fail to realize how many moves I have thought ahead. At that same Christmas Carnage where you shocked the world with your return, I befuddled it when I entered a little battle royal, with the winner being granted a free shot at any title they pleased. It was a short order to win, with just the likes of Matt Caje standing in my way, and I anticipated that such a contract would be handy in the future."
"I hereby cash in my title shot earned in the PRW Christmas Battle Royal. At Blackout, the PRW Tag Team titles wil be on the line, with the defending champions Lion Merteuil and Sniper taking on Last Genesis, as represented by Seida Haruka and Art McLellan. I've checked and double-checked the workings of this one, Lion, and there's no way for you to squirrel out. Even in this limited capacity, we will meet at Blackout, for the first time in over a year."
McLellan stands up, which is a labourious task from the miniature furniture that housed him. He lights up a cigarette, which he had tucked into the wrist of his jacket, and begins smoking it slowly. The wisps of cancerous vapor twirl to the ceiling, before dissipating into safer concentrations.
Art walks to the door of the shed, and opens up a creaking, padlocked door. Stepping out into the brisk night air, he slams it behind him, ensuring that it will shut. On the adjacent shelf, a jerry can overturns, crashing to the floor with its contents spilling on the pine boards. A candle from the table teeters; the next events are to be taken for granted.
Smoke billows out of the poorly-constructed roof, as the shed quickly bursts into inferno. McLellan walks down the hilltop, clutching a shovel he had grabbed from its perch outside the door. He spits out his cigarette on the grass, and descends the hill upon which the burning shed stands. A faltering old willow tree, sick with rot, is at the foot of the hill, and, feeling he is a safe distance from the blaze, McLellan sits at the foot of it. He lays down the shovel only to procure and light another cigarette, then places his habit between his lips with his left hand, while placing his right on the rustic-looking digger’s tool.
“You may be wondering why an old man is chasing you, Lion, demanding your attention, quoting scriptures and sitting out in a graveyard in the middle of the night. I have explained it before, and I will explain it again: I have a duty to uphold to the world. It is as I said: “Boast not thyself of tomorrow.” I have lived in the past for too long, at the time where I am one of many Gods, brightening the fleeting existence of the sheeple who bear witness to divine contests. I am the last of my kind, and from this, I take the responsibility of breeding and guiding this next generation of legends, lest I speak forever of yesterday, until I may boast of tomorrow no more.”
“You, Lion Merteuil, are the brightest prospect of them all, by far. You are cunning, brilliant, and talented, but I know above all else, that within you lies the perseverance, the trepidation, the very soul that will allow you to ascend to the plane which I myself solely inhabit. I glimpsed it when we met in the Prison From Hell, but it faltered, and your flame flickered, and your inability to see the light within hindered your only chance of victory: matching my own will.”
“It is a painful life, to join a carnival of souls, dancing for the masses, but you will come to see that it is truly gratifying to know that you are truly greater than all those who dare to set eyes on you. I know, Lion, but you say, ‘I am already better,’ and this is the truth, but in accepting this, you are blinding yourself to the upper echelon of consciousness that I enjoy. Are you content being just a man, or do you truly desire more? I know that you do, Lion! I see it, deep in your eyes and heart! To find this place, and open your body and soul to it, you need only to return to a hell much more terrifying then that wretched prison, and be it willingly, or be it kicking and screaming, I will guide you to that hell by your very hand!”
McLellan removes the cigarette from his mouth, blowing dense smoke out of his lungs into the starry night sky. It intermingles with the greater clouds from the blazing shed, a curious sight, one enormous fireball surrounded by the blackness of a dewey hill. It is a matter not of the magnificence of the sight itself, but of the scale at which one witnesses it.
Art McLellan taps burning embers onto the grass, and smokes again.
“The chips are down, Lion, and from our first encounter at Blackout, to the moment when I open your eyes for the very last time, you are now on a track which you have little control over. You may outthink me at times, or outmaneuver me at others, but the end result will still be the same. I will allow you to live on through the ages as I do, and in doing so, I will have given you the greatest gift I possibly can.”
“The world passeth away, and the lust thereof. But, Lion, beyond the variable nature of this mortal plane, lies a land in which you can live forever. Take my hand, Lion, and come with me, to the land of Gods…”
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- MATTHEW,May 28 2012
- 04:14 AM
I'm an elitist, pompous, arrogant, twat that acts like such a tough guy on message boards because I'm a giant pussy in real life. Truth is, I'm a huge fag and the fact that I wrote a long post comes from my deep-seeded desire to to shove as many cocks into any oriface I have.
I'm an asshole and nobody likes me, so I cry myself to sleep at night because strangers on a message board don't get my depth of character, so rather than improve my attitude, I just pretend to be House and act like I don't care.
I still wet the bed and my parents love me but I ignore them so I can seem tortured soul and feign misery so people will be sympathetic when in fact I'm just a miserable douche. [/center]
24-11 (11/07/01) 1x Undisputed Champion of Internet Wrestling 1x PRW Tag Team Champion






















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