Post by drakeconnors on Jan 26, 2020 23:26:56 GMT -6
Scene: NAPW After Show, OFF CAMERA
He removes the green wig and stylized mask with a deep sigh, his final (for now) show with NAPW, the man in the superhero-esque tights stretches, running a careless hand through his short, spiky brown hair. It had been a killer match, as always. It's crazy how a character that got no traction in America was batshit crazy popular in Japan. He'd been playing this role for a couple years in Japan, and it always made him slightly bewildered that "Captain Tightass" was such a big deal here. They had him starring in ads of all sorts, he had his own anime, and even his own genuine arch-nemesis in "Sergeant Blueballs", played by a rotating cast of guys in the mask of the testicle themed bad guy. Such a change from what he usually did, which was playing the guy you never knew what side he was on.
Chuckling a bit, Drake Connors shucked the green, black, and white tunic with the stylized ass symbol off of his torso, revealing the black tribal angel wings tattooed on his back, with a recent addition in between them: The Japanese Kanji for "Destruction". He was packing both mask and tunic into his gear bag, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, expecting either Kyu, Okami, or Austin (the guys who normally took on the role of Blueballs)... And was rather unpleasantly surprised when the mustachioed hound dog face of Hulk Hogan stood before him, wearing a shabby "Hulkamania" shirt, jeans, a fanny pack, and socks with sandals.
Drake Connors: Uhhh... Yeah? What do you want?
Hulk Hogan: Lemme tell ya somethin', brother! I'm here on behalf of the WWE; Vince McMahon himself has told me to come here and personally offer you a spot on our roster, brother!
Drake snorts derisively.
Drake Connors: I guess he didn't tell you what happened the last time I worked for him, did he... Brother?
Hulk Hogan: I have no idea, brother. He told me that he'd be willing to forget all about it, brother! Said he wants the Dark Angel in the WWE yesterday, brother!
Here, Hogan puts a friendly hand on Drake's shoulder. Drake looks at Hogan's hand like it's a dead animal, before impatiently brushing it off.
Drake Connors: Two things: I will never work for Vince McMahon again. Period. I made that perfectly clear when I broke the man's jaw. Second, Terry, I am not your brother. If I were your brother, I'd have killed myself by now, you racist, lying, politician ass fucking junkie. You spent a career burying guys and gals because it threatened your precious ego; I ain't with that.
Hulk Hogan: Now look here, brother...
Drake sighs as Hogan gets visibly angry and reads the older man's muscle movement: The dopey old bastard is about to try to punch him! Well... Time to burn yet another professional bridge and teach yet another lesson to some "legend" who thinks far too much of himself. Rather than stop Hogan from throwing his feeble old man punch, Drake lets him. However, instead of letting him connect, Drake sidesteps and catches Hogan's fist in his hand. The look of surprise on the old fuck's face almost makes Drake laugh, but he cannot; this is serious business and a lesson must be taught: No means NO. Hogan throws another punch, and again, Drake blocks it, but then follows up his block with a savage flurry of blows to Hogan's midsection, followed by a savage backhand punch to Hogan's cheek. Drake throws a fast knee into Hogan's midsection, bending the old bastard over and thus perfectly setting up the following elbow strike to the back of Hogan's head, knocking the old bastard to the floor and into a soupy semi-consciousness.
Far from done, Drake releases a flurry of kicks to the downed man, barely aware of the names he is calling the old fuck: Racist, a disgrace to the profession, a politician, so on, so forth. It's not until he realizes that Kyukyoku no Kyojin has joined him in kicking the crap out of Hogan that Drake begins to cool off a bit. With a final punt to Hogan's lips, Drake leans down and rips the ridiculous strip of extensions off the back of the old man's head.
Kyukyoku no Kyojin: Hey, why we kicking the balls out of this old fart?
Drake chuckles, looking at the strip of fake blond hair in his hand, and told Kyu about Hogan trying to recruit him for the WWE, and also some hard truths about how Hogan had treated both Randy Savage and Ultimate Warrior, two wrestlers Kyu greatly admired. Kyu frowned dangerously.
Kyukyoku no Kyojin: We should rob this piece of fuck. Seems he likes to rob other workers, so poetic justice, yeah?
Drake smirks, already crouching down to unzip Hogan's old-man fanny pack. There is very little cash in there, but there is a rather large bottle of some sort of liquid.
Kyu: The fuck is that?
Drake opens the sports bottle and sniffs it, making a disgusted face.
Drake: Juvie juice.
Kyu: What juice?
Drake snorts, standing up, bottle still in hand.
Drake: Juvie juice. Wrestler's cocktail. Shit's full of all kinds of drugs and whatever. Never used it myself. S'posed to make it so old, busted up fucks like Terry here can keep going.
Kyu digests that for a second, then gets a mischievous grin on his face.
Kyu: Jam it up his ass.
Drake whips an incredulous look on his crazy Japanese friend. Kyu nods, giggling.
Kyu: All up in his bootyhole. Make him... Whats the phrase... Chug-butt it?
Drake laughs.
Drake: Butt-chug. Well... You pull down his pants. I ain't gonna do it.
Kyu smirks, and doesn't hesitate at all to yank Hulk Hogan's jeans down, exposing a saggy old man ass that Drake knew he'd have some nightmares about later. Chuckling, Kyu takes the bottle of juvie juice from Drake's hand, and without so much as a courtesy spit to lube anything up, JAMS the bottle straight up Hogan's butthole, giving the bottle a healthy squeeze. Hogan murmurs "that feels real nice, Vinnie", and both Drake and Kyu burst out laughing, leaving Hogan in an undignified condition as they walk away, heading to the dressing rooms.
Later, after showering and dressing in his streets, Drake's phone lights up, the ringtone one he thought he'd never hear again. Her. The hell could she want?
Drake: How the hell should I know? Maybe if you let me answer the phone, I could find out.
Hey, cut that out! It's too early to start breaking the fourth wall!
Drake: Never too early for that, writer-monkey... Anyway... Hello, there?
Drake answers the phone nonchalantly, yet when it's her, there's always a bit of uncertainty and... chalantness? Nevermind, no time to wax poetic, the female on the on the other end of the line is speaking. Drake is listening with at first hesitant amusement, then a perplexed smirk.
Drake: Another new fed? I mean, things didn't go so great the last time we tried to run... Oh, I'm not gonna be management? Hah, no, far from it. I'm saying "thank god", because I don't wanna worry about trying to herd wrasslers. I tried that a few times already; they're too damn needy. Not like me; just gimme a good challenge and I'm good to go. Hmm... Well, I mean, it's not like I have a lot of options. Just finished up my contract with NAPW, also just beat the crap out of Hulk Hogan for trying to poach me for WWE... I -know-, as if I'd ever work with Vince Mc-fuckin-Mahon again. There... Might be some legal concerns, seeing as Terry's bottle of juvie juice was given a new home. Heh, jammed squarely up his ass. Well, yes, I am a sick man, Ana, I thought you knew that, and that's why you want me for Invicta. All right, I'm in, on one condition: I get to bring a few of my homies from NAPW. Trust me, these guys are pretty damn good at what they do, and I think it's about time an American company featured some heavy Japanese Hard-Style Wrestling. Deal. See you soon.
Drake hangs up, staring at the phone.
Drake: Well... That just happened.
With that, Drake makes a few more calls to his best buds in NAPW, letting them know about this new opportunity...
Scene: IWA, Hours Before Monday Night Mayhem, ON CAMERA
He can practically hear the internet going insane as the scene fades in on Drake Connors in his typical rocker-boy streets, his gear bag hanging from his left shoulder as he knocks on the door to an office bearing the words in gold lettering: Analicia Morales and Owner. With a smirk and sigh, he waits a moment, taking the time for her to respond to scroll through the cesspool of the Twit-o-sphere, trying to figure out who in the hell he was up against. Whoever she was, she seemed...Kinda all over the place. Ditzy. Unsure of herself. He smirks. Great. A warm up match is just what he needs. It's been a while since he played to an American crowd. It'd be good to get back to what he did best: Annoy the hell out of everyone and win awards whilst doing so. A soft, feminine voice bids him to "enter", so Drake opens the door, seeing what can only be described as "Business Ana", dressed in a sharp business suit, seated behind a desk and wearing what looks like reading glasses as she glances over files before flicking her gaze up.
Analicia: Well, it's about damn time you showed up! I thought I was gonna have to drag your ass here myself! Where have you been? I would have thought you'd have already ripped into Andi Lynx by now.
Drake smirks, dropping his gear bag and having a seat. He cockily places his feet on Ana's desk, putting his hands behind his head. Ana eyes him with amusement, knowing well that Drake was at his most dangerous when he seemed to be at his most relaxed and casual. She says nothing about his beat up motorcycle boots scratching the nice wood desk she was perched behind, simply lifted his boots to move a particular file from underneath them and gave him her own smirk. Drake's smirk widens into a grin, flashing teeth and that cold, ice-blue bullshooter's gaze she remembers so well.
Drake: I would've, but I have zero idea who she is. I mean, c'mon, Ana, you have to admit that I'm your top draw here... And instead of giving me a match where I can burn the house down, you put me up against some cotton candy pink marshmallow girl who, judging by her roster pic, is super into candy canes... Hell, I even waded into that cesspool known as Twitter to figure out who the hell she is... And honestly, I still don't have a clue, because her shit is all over the place. She's a scatterbrain.
Analicia: A scatterbrain that I taught. She's the latest graduate of the Invicta developmental program.
Drake snorts.
Drake: And you think it's a good idea to put her up against somebody who's known for inflicting maximum pain? And that was before I went to Japan and mastered the Strong Style. Are you comfortable with the idea of her getting badly hurt?
Ana shrugs, that mercenary look glinting in her eye that Drake remembers well, that look that said "fuck it, burn it all down"... A look that usually sends people running in the opposite direction, but not him.
Analicia: If that's what happens, that's what happens. IF.
Drake stares coldly at her for a few moments, then sucks on his teeth and laughs.
Drake: No "if" about it. This kid knows fuck-all about what it takes to be on the same level as me.
Ana stares at Drake for a bit, then tilts her head, a slight grin on her face.
Analicia: True. She doesn't. Not yet, anyway. I expect her to learn, to sink or swim.
Drake: So the reason you're tossing me your new protege is so I can teach her what it takes to be in the bigs? *sigh* Ana, I'm not a teacher. I don't hop in that ring to give lessons on the business, I go into that ring to give instruction on pain. Pure and simple. I'm not gonna play nice with Pinky Pie.
Analicia grins, showing teeth; it's a somehow savage smile that never reaches her eyes. It's a smile he knows well; he sees it often enough in the mirror.
Analicia: Not asking you to, Drake. In fact, I fully expect you to go into that ring and tear her to shreds. I expect her to learn that even though you might be... older... You've still got plenty you can teach the youngsters about innovation, about pain, and how to drive through crushing defeat.
Drake blows air through his lips, making them vibrate as he chews on that mentally for a moment, then shrugs, smirking again.
Drake: I notice you didn't deny that I'm your top draw. That include Mr. Hollywood?
Ana's ice-queen demeanor cracks for a moment and she laughs, shooing Drake away. Cracking a grin, Drake lowers his boots to the floor, then stands.
Drake: All right, Annie... I'll go and educate Pinky Pie. Just don't complain if I send your little pony back all busted up.
With a savage smile and a wink, Drake picks up his gear bag and saunters out of Analicia's office, gently shoving the camera man out of the way as the scene fades to black.
[/font][/div]He removes the green wig and stylized mask with a deep sigh, his final (for now) show with NAPW, the man in the superhero-esque tights stretches, running a careless hand through his short, spiky brown hair. It had been a killer match, as always. It's crazy how a character that got no traction in America was batshit crazy popular in Japan. He'd been playing this role for a couple years in Japan, and it always made him slightly bewildered that "Captain Tightass" was such a big deal here. They had him starring in ads of all sorts, he had his own anime, and even his own genuine arch-nemesis in "Sergeant Blueballs", played by a rotating cast of guys in the mask of the testicle themed bad guy. Such a change from what he usually did, which was playing the guy you never knew what side he was on.
Chuckling a bit, Drake Connors shucked the green, black, and white tunic with the stylized ass symbol off of his torso, revealing the black tribal angel wings tattooed on his back, with a recent addition in between them: The Japanese Kanji for "Destruction". He was packing both mask and tunic into his gear bag, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, expecting either Kyu, Okami, or Austin (the guys who normally took on the role of Blueballs)... And was rather unpleasantly surprised when the mustachioed hound dog face of Hulk Hogan stood before him, wearing a shabby "Hulkamania" shirt, jeans, a fanny pack, and socks with sandals.
Drake Connors: Uhhh... Yeah? What do you want?
Hulk Hogan: Lemme tell ya somethin', brother! I'm here on behalf of the WWE; Vince McMahon himself has told me to come here and personally offer you a spot on our roster, brother!
Drake snorts derisively.
Drake Connors: I guess he didn't tell you what happened the last time I worked for him, did he... Brother?
Hulk Hogan: I have no idea, brother. He told me that he'd be willing to forget all about it, brother! Said he wants the Dark Angel in the WWE yesterday, brother!
Here, Hogan puts a friendly hand on Drake's shoulder. Drake looks at Hogan's hand like it's a dead animal, before impatiently brushing it off.
Drake Connors: Two things: I will never work for Vince McMahon again. Period. I made that perfectly clear when I broke the man's jaw. Second, Terry, I am not your brother. If I were your brother, I'd have killed myself by now, you racist, lying, politician ass fucking junkie. You spent a career burying guys and gals because it threatened your precious ego; I ain't with that.
Hulk Hogan: Now look here, brother...
Drake sighs as Hogan gets visibly angry and reads the older man's muscle movement: The dopey old bastard is about to try to punch him! Well... Time to burn yet another professional bridge and teach yet another lesson to some "legend" who thinks far too much of himself. Rather than stop Hogan from throwing his feeble old man punch, Drake lets him. However, instead of letting him connect, Drake sidesteps and catches Hogan's fist in his hand. The look of surprise on the old fuck's face almost makes Drake laugh, but he cannot; this is serious business and a lesson must be taught: No means NO. Hogan throws another punch, and again, Drake blocks it, but then follows up his block with a savage flurry of blows to Hogan's midsection, followed by a savage backhand punch to Hogan's cheek. Drake throws a fast knee into Hogan's midsection, bending the old bastard over and thus perfectly setting up the following elbow strike to the back of Hogan's head, knocking the old bastard to the floor and into a soupy semi-consciousness.
Far from done, Drake releases a flurry of kicks to the downed man, barely aware of the names he is calling the old fuck: Racist, a disgrace to the profession, a politician, so on, so forth. It's not until he realizes that Kyukyoku no Kyojin has joined him in kicking the crap out of Hogan that Drake begins to cool off a bit. With a final punt to Hogan's lips, Drake leans down and rips the ridiculous strip of extensions off the back of the old man's head.
Kyukyoku no Kyojin: Hey, why we kicking the balls out of this old fart?
Drake chuckles, looking at the strip of fake blond hair in his hand, and told Kyu about Hogan trying to recruit him for the WWE, and also some hard truths about how Hogan had treated both Randy Savage and Ultimate Warrior, two wrestlers Kyu greatly admired. Kyu frowned dangerously.
Kyukyoku no Kyojin: We should rob this piece of fuck. Seems he likes to rob other workers, so poetic justice, yeah?
Drake smirks, already crouching down to unzip Hogan's old-man fanny pack. There is very little cash in there, but there is a rather large bottle of some sort of liquid.
Kyu: The fuck is that?
Drake opens the sports bottle and sniffs it, making a disgusted face.
Drake: Juvie juice.
Kyu: What juice?
Drake snorts, standing up, bottle still in hand.
Drake: Juvie juice. Wrestler's cocktail. Shit's full of all kinds of drugs and whatever. Never used it myself. S'posed to make it so old, busted up fucks like Terry here can keep going.
Kyu digests that for a second, then gets a mischievous grin on his face.
Kyu: Jam it up his ass.
Drake whips an incredulous look on his crazy Japanese friend. Kyu nods, giggling.
Kyu: All up in his bootyhole. Make him... Whats the phrase... Chug-butt it?
Drake laughs.
Drake: Butt-chug. Well... You pull down his pants. I ain't gonna do it.
Kyu smirks, and doesn't hesitate at all to yank Hulk Hogan's jeans down, exposing a saggy old man ass that Drake knew he'd have some nightmares about later. Chuckling, Kyu takes the bottle of juvie juice from Drake's hand, and without so much as a courtesy spit to lube anything up, JAMS the bottle straight up Hogan's butthole, giving the bottle a healthy squeeze. Hogan murmurs "that feels real nice, Vinnie", and both Drake and Kyu burst out laughing, leaving Hogan in an undignified condition as they walk away, heading to the dressing rooms.
Later, after showering and dressing in his streets, Drake's phone lights up, the ringtone one he thought he'd never hear again. Her. The hell could she want?
Drake: How the hell should I know? Maybe if you let me answer the phone, I could find out.
Hey, cut that out! It's too early to start breaking the fourth wall!
Drake: Never too early for that, writer-monkey... Anyway... Hello, there?
Drake answers the phone nonchalantly, yet when it's her, there's always a bit of uncertainty and... chalantness? Nevermind, no time to wax poetic, the female on the on the other end of the line is speaking. Drake is listening with at first hesitant amusement, then a perplexed smirk.
Drake: Another new fed? I mean, things didn't go so great the last time we tried to run... Oh, I'm not gonna be management? Hah, no, far from it. I'm saying "thank god", because I don't wanna worry about trying to herd wrasslers. I tried that a few times already; they're too damn needy. Not like me; just gimme a good challenge and I'm good to go. Hmm... Well, I mean, it's not like I have a lot of options. Just finished up my contract with NAPW, also just beat the crap out of Hulk Hogan for trying to poach me for WWE... I -know-, as if I'd ever work with Vince Mc-fuckin-Mahon again. There... Might be some legal concerns, seeing as Terry's bottle of juvie juice was given a new home. Heh, jammed squarely up his ass. Well, yes, I am a sick man, Ana, I thought you knew that, and that's why you want me for Invicta. All right, I'm in, on one condition: I get to bring a few of my homies from NAPW. Trust me, these guys are pretty damn good at what they do, and I think it's about time an American company featured some heavy Japanese Hard-Style Wrestling. Deal. See you soon.
Drake hangs up, staring at the phone.
Drake: Well... That just happened.
With that, Drake makes a few more calls to his best buds in NAPW, letting them know about this new opportunity...
Scene: IWA, Hours Before Monday Night Mayhem, ON CAMERA
He can practically hear the internet going insane as the scene fades in on Drake Connors in his typical rocker-boy streets, his gear bag hanging from his left shoulder as he knocks on the door to an office bearing the words in gold lettering: Analicia Morales and Owner. With a smirk and sigh, he waits a moment, taking the time for her to respond to scroll through the cesspool of the Twit-o-sphere, trying to figure out who in the hell he was up against. Whoever she was, she seemed...Kinda all over the place. Ditzy. Unsure of herself. He smirks. Great. A warm up match is just what he needs. It's been a while since he played to an American crowd. It'd be good to get back to what he did best: Annoy the hell out of everyone and win awards whilst doing so. A soft, feminine voice bids him to "enter", so Drake opens the door, seeing what can only be described as "Business Ana", dressed in a sharp business suit, seated behind a desk and wearing what looks like reading glasses as she glances over files before flicking her gaze up.
Analicia: Well, it's about damn time you showed up! I thought I was gonna have to drag your ass here myself! Where have you been? I would have thought you'd have already ripped into Andi Lynx by now.
Drake smirks, dropping his gear bag and having a seat. He cockily places his feet on Ana's desk, putting his hands behind his head. Ana eyes him with amusement, knowing well that Drake was at his most dangerous when he seemed to be at his most relaxed and casual. She says nothing about his beat up motorcycle boots scratching the nice wood desk she was perched behind, simply lifted his boots to move a particular file from underneath them and gave him her own smirk. Drake's smirk widens into a grin, flashing teeth and that cold, ice-blue bullshooter's gaze she remembers so well.
Drake: I would've, but I have zero idea who she is. I mean, c'mon, Ana, you have to admit that I'm your top draw here... And instead of giving me a match where I can burn the house down, you put me up against some cotton candy pink marshmallow girl who, judging by her roster pic, is super into candy canes... Hell, I even waded into that cesspool known as Twitter to figure out who the hell she is... And honestly, I still don't have a clue, because her shit is all over the place. She's a scatterbrain.
Analicia: A scatterbrain that I taught. She's the latest graduate of the Invicta developmental program.
Drake snorts.
Drake: And you think it's a good idea to put her up against somebody who's known for inflicting maximum pain? And that was before I went to Japan and mastered the Strong Style. Are you comfortable with the idea of her getting badly hurt?
Ana shrugs, that mercenary look glinting in her eye that Drake remembers well, that look that said "fuck it, burn it all down"... A look that usually sends people running in the opposite direction, but not him.
Analicia: If that's what happens, that's what happens. IF.
Drake stares coldly at her for a few moments, then sucks on his teeth and laughs.
Drake: No "if" about it. This kid knows fuck-all about what it takes to be on the same level as me.
Ana stares at Drake for a bit, then tilts her head, a slight grin on her face.
Analicia: True. She doesn't. Not yet, anyway. I expect her to learn, to sink or swim.
Drake: So the reason you're tossing me your new protege is so I can teach her what it takes to be in the bigs? *sigh* Ana, I'm not a teacher. I don't hop in that ring to give lessons on the business, I go into that ring to give instruction on pain. Pure and simple. I'm not gonna play nice with Pinky Pie.
Analicia grins, showing teeth; it's a somehow savage smile that never reaches her eyes. It's a smile he knows well; he sees it often enough in the mirror.
Analicia: Not asking you to, Drake. In fact, I fully expect you to go into that ring and tear her to shreds. I expect her to learn that even though you might be... older... You've still got plenty you can teach the youngsters about innovation, about pain, and how to drive through crushing defeat.
Drake blows air through his lips, making them vibrate as he chews on that mentally for a moment, then shrugs, smirking again.
Drake: I notice you didn't deny that I'm your top draw. That include Mr. Hollywood?
Ana's ice-queen demeanor cracks for a moment and she laughs, shooing Drake away. Cracking a grin, Drake lowers his boots to the floor, then stands.
Drake: All right, Annie... I'll go and educate Pinky Pie. Just don't complain if I send your little pony back all busted up.
With a savage smile and a wink, Drake picks up his gear bag and saunters out of Analicia's office, gently shoving the camera man out of the way as the scene fades to black.