The-Joker
October 9th, 2006, 09:37 PM
We fade in to find Roderick Brookes in the alley behind the National Guard Armory, smoking a cigarette and enjoying a bottle of brandy (his favorite brand: Baron Brian Blair de Sigognac.) He drinks, then he smokes, then he drinks, then he smokes. Clearly he's crosstraining for his big match. He takes a drink from the bottle of brandy and before he gets a chance to swallow it, a loud clang echoes throughout the alley and he falls to his knees. The camera zooms out to show the recently ousted Lil Finga behind him, holding a chair, smiling at the thought of flooring the PWW star. Brooks turns around, still kneeling and looks up at the chair wielding "wrestler" in front of him. He sees Lil Finga standing over him, smirking.
Lil Finga: Hahahah i hit u wit a chair dawg. u r my tikket to sucksezs.
Brookes looks to be in great pain as Finga raises the chair to finish him off. Finally it seems that the pain of the first vicious chairshot has become unbearable and he collapses on his side. Finga, looking confused stands over Brookes and rolls him onto his back, nervously checking to make sure he's still alive. Finga leans in for a closer look at Brookes, who quickly and suddenly spits the brandy in Finga's face, laughing uncontrollably and blinding the rapper. As Finga stumbles back, Brookes is quick to his feet, showing little in the way of ill effects from the previous week's match. He runs up to the dazed Finga and hits him with a STIFF European Uppercut, sending Finga crashing to the ground on his back, less some teeth. Brookes viciously kicks him in the side.
Roderick: You've gotta be f*cking kidding me... THERE
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Roderick: Now then. I'm going to have to make an example out of you. It's nothing personal, you're just a sap tryin' to make a name for 'imself at the expense of a livin' feckin' god. Not that I can blame you.
As Brookes talks, he lifts Finga up onto one shoulder and holds him there. He continues speaking, seemingly not even feeling the jobber's man's weight
Roderick: Ya f*ckin pathetic little eejit, ya banjanxed your career, and now you pissed me off. Either way yer never gettin in a goddam ring again. Tonight you go down, and...
Brookes drops Finga with a vicious one shoulder Powerbomb, not breaking a sweat as he turns Finga onto his stomach and sets him up for a curbstomp, seeming to just notice the camera, and speaking directly to it as he positions Finga for it.
Roderick: After I finish my pre-match warmup with this f*ggot here...
Brookes curb stomps Finga hard, sending his face careening into a large pile of garbage, smashing a glass bottle among the rubbish. He laughs and looks back at the camera
Roderick: I've got another f*ggot to deal with on my way to dominate this f*ckin' run down shantytown of a company. Tonight, I fight that goddamn metrosexual knobpolishing f*ggot son of a bitch, BRett Strokes.
If there was a crowd, they'd be booing. But there isn't. Finga struggles to boo Brookes, but only coughs up blood. Brookes looks down at him, laughing and applies the devastating "No Cure For Cancer". Finga screams and Roderick begins laughing like a madman as Finga taps out to his casually applied finisher. Brookes continues talking to the camera as if Finga wasn't even there.
Roderick: And they said my knees looked bad last week? This f*ckin' knob end's knees haven't gotten rest in months. But tonight, I'm gonna give 'im all the f*ckin rest he needs.
He continues to apply the hold to Finga, laughing as he feels his neck and knees creak and stretch unnaturally under the pressure.
Roderick: I'm not even bothered with this fudgepackin' wannabe fashion model Strokes. He's f*ckin' useless. What matters to me is that after I go through 'im and then whoever else to make it to the top of this company, I'll be the champion.. Because there's no place better to take the place down, than from the top...
He finally hears the snap he was looking for and he releases Lil Finga from the hold. He looks around for the bottle of brandy. He finds it and empties the contents onto the near-corpse of Lil Finga. He takes the cigarette he was smoking and throws it down on Finga, moving back a bit as a flame begins to light the gangsta's hoodie on fire. Finga squirms and screams as the fire burns his clothes
Roderick: And from there, it's nothing but a slow burn...
He looks back at finga.
Roderick: Don't worry about him... someone'll put him out eventually. I think...
He takes the back door back into the arena to prepare for his match. FTB, bitches.
Lil Finga: Hahahah i hit u wit a chair dawg. u r my tikket to sucksezs.
Brookes looks to be in great pain as Finga raises the chair to finish him off. Finally it seems that the pain of the first vicious chairshot has become unbearable and he collapses on his side. Finga, looking confused stands over Brookes and rolls him onto his back, nervously checking to make sure he's still alive. Finga leans in for a closer look at Brookes, who quickly and suddenly spits the brandy in Finga's face, laughing uncontrollably and blinding the rapper. As Finga stumbles back, Brookes is quick to his feet, showing little in the way of ill effects from the previous week's match. He runs up to the dazed Finga and hits him with a STIFF European Uppercut, sending Finga crashing to the ground on his back, less some teeth. Brookes viciously kicks him in the side.
Roderick: You've gotta be f*cking kidding me... THERE
kick
are
kick
no
kick
weapons
kick
in
kick
PWW
kickkickkick
Roderick: Now then. I'm going to have to make an example out of you. It's nothing personal, you're just a sap tryin' to make a name for 'imself at the expense of a livin' feckin' god. Not that I can blame you.
As Brookes talks, he lifts Finga up onto one shoulder and holds him there. He continues speaking, seemingly not even feeling the jobber's man's weight
Roderick: Ya f*ckin pathetic little eejit, ya banjanxed your career, and now you pissed me off. Either way yer never gettin in a goddam ring again. Tonight you go down, and...
Brookes drops Finga with a vicious one shoulder Powerbomb, not breaking a sweat as he turns Finga onto his stomach and sets him up for a curbstomp, seeming to just notice the camera, and speaking directly to it as he positions Finga for it.
Roderick: After I finish my pre-match warmup with this f*ggot here...
Brookes curb stomps Finga hard, sending his face careening into a large pile of garbage, smashing a glass bottle among the rubbish. He laughs and looks back at the camera
Roderick: I've got another f*ggot to deal with on my way to dominate this f*ckin' run down shantytown of a company. Tonight, I fight that goddamn metrosexual knobpolishing f*ggot son of a bitch, BRett Strokes.
If there was a crowd, they'd be booing. But there isn't. Finga struggles to boo Brookes, but only coughs up blood. Brookes looks down at him, laughing and applies the devastating "No Cure For Cancer". Finga screams and Roderick begins laughing like a madman as Finga taps out to his casually applied finisher. Brookes continues talking to the camera as if Finga wasn't even there.
Roderick: And they said my knees looked bad last week? This f*ckin' knob end's knees haven't gotten rest in months. But tonight, I'm gonna give 'im all the f*ckin rest he needs.
He continues to apply the hold to Finga, laughing as he feels his neck and knees creak and stretch unnaturally under the pressure.
Roderick: I'm not even bothered with this fudgepackin' wannabe fashion model Strokes. He's f*ckin' useless. What matters to me is that after I go through 'im and then whoever else to make it to the top of this company, I'll be the champion.. Because there's no place better to take the place down, than from the top...
He finally hears the snap he was looking for and he releases Lil Finga from the hold. He looks around for the bottle of brandy. He finds it and empties the contents onto the near-corpse of Lil Finga. He takes the cigarette he was smoking and throws it down on Finga, moving back a bit as a flame begins to light the gangsta's hoodie on fire. Finga squirms and screams as the fire burns his clothes
Roderick: And from there, it's nothing but a slow burn...
He looks back at finga.
Roderick: Don't worry about him... someone'll put him out eventually. I think...
He takes the back door back into the arena to prepare for his match. FTB, bitches.