Disposable Hero
October 21st, 2006, 07:04 PM
We’re backstage at Destiny Fulfilled, and after some other longwinded motherf*cker’s promo, we head over to the locker room of Drake Vinaldi. The Sicilian Shooter is dressed in his dark green cargo pants, which are nicely tucked into his wrestling boots. His wrists are taped, his hair is slicked back, and his eyes are focused on the camera.
Drake Vinaldi:
”Please tell me you people are f*cking kidding. No, I’m being serious. Please tell me that ALL of you motherf*ckers AREN’T being serious. Do you seriously think that I’m supposed to be intimidated by all of you dumb pieces of sh*t rambling on for ten hours about how you’re going to win this tournament? Jesus f*cking Christ, I guess it’s just the new fad to talk your asses off and try to fool yourselves into ACTUALLY believing that you have a CHANCE of becoming THE Pro Wrestling Warrior. I mean sh*t, I like to try and keep things short and to the f*cking point, but I’ve been pissed off to a goddamn point where I have to ramble because if I don’t, my anger won’t be subsided and instead of just kicking some motherf*cker in the head later tonight, I’m going to kick their head OFF. Then it’s going to fly into the crowd with such force that it hits a goddamn old lady in the gut, killing her, causing her dentures to fly out and stab into some little kid’s head. Then I’m going to get arrested for triple homicide, and I won’t be able to compete, then all of you stupid motherf*ckers will be to blame for Drake Vinaldi being put on the electric chair and being sentenced to an early death.
…
Sh*t.”
Vinaldi is breathing heavily now, and he proceeds to kick his gym bag with force, sending it flying across the locker room and out of camera view. Drake begins to pace back and forth while still speaking.
Drake Vinaldi:
”I’d like to apologize for the sudden outbreak of anger, but it just seemed necessary. F*ck man… it’s just that when everybody has a chance of wearing gold around their waist it’s like they won’t shut the f*ck up. I don’t want to hear Darius Falcon talk for more than thirty seconds. Hell, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t ever hear the whiny bitch talk at all. The only time I’d ever have to hear his voice is when he’s screaming in pain after I kick him in the damn kidney and he’s pissing urine of the blood colored variety. But damn, you know what, I’ve got to be perfectly honest with you people.
I want that f*cking title. And it isn’t because I just like gold or some stupid sh*t like that. No. It’s not about that. It’s about the f*cking pride that comes with the title. Pain is temporary. Pride is forever. And every single goddamn night that I go out to that ring, I endure more pain than I did the last time I fought. And why do I do it? Because I’m some sick f*cker that derives sexual pleasure from it? No, because if I did, not only would I f*cking love boys, but you’d see a bulge bursting from my goddamn pants every night. I go through more pain because I want to be the best. I’ve proven time and time again that I can dish it out and receive it.
No, Roderick, I don’t mean that in the ‘let’s f*ck little boys’ sense. Quit drinking so goddamn much. That’s not a vagina, it’s a man’s goddamn assh*le.
Anyway… I’ve proven that I can go with the best and endure things that the rest can’t. I’ve had my head dropped onto ladders, I’ve been put through tables, I’ve been choked out, I’ve been busted open. To be brief, I’ve been f*cking taken to the cleaners on many occasions. But I’ve also given my opponents the same sh*t right back. It might seem like I’m going off on a tangent, God knows some of these other pieces of sh*t have, but what I’m trying to say is that I deserve that PWW World Championship more than anybody else does. From day one in this company, I’ve talked sh*t and I’ve backed it up. Seth Frost, the ol’ Snowman knows that. Darius Falcon, the Jesus hater knows that. Roderick Brooks, the dumbass drunkard knows that.
And Crimson Hawk just probably doesn’t remember because I kicked him in the f*cking head too hard. Nice mask, you little bastard.
Whenever I say that I’m going to do something, I follow up. If I say I’m going to kick you in the head… well, I’ll do it. If I say I’m going to make you tap out like a little bitch… then yeah, you will.
And usually, if I say you f*cking love boys, then everybody probably knows that it’s true.
Whatever, I digress once again. I want the goddamn title. I will compete with… heh… murderous intent. I will do anything to be known as THE Pro Wrestling Warrior. I’ll put my body on the line, and hell, I’ll sacrifice my own life for it.
Why?
Because that’s what a f*cking Champion does. You fight until you can’t fight anymore. Broken bone? F*ck it, I’ll break that thing back into place. Torn muscle? I’ve got plenty of others where that came from. Laceration on my forehead? Give me a f*cking tissue, it’s just blood. I will not stop until I cannot go any further. And that means that you have to cut off my legs and my arms, pour f*cking cement into my lungs, and take out my f*cking brain. But until all of those things are done, I will keep fighting, because that’s just who I am.
Now, I could keep going. I could give a ten minute speech about each one of my possible opponents. I could make some dumbass f*cking pun about my destiny being fulfilled. I could smack steel chairs into other foreign objects to try and make myself look like a badass. But why waste time with that? Why look like an idiot? Instead of doing anything stupid, I’ll just say this. The Lizard King loses first. Then the next two get to face the same fate. No, I won’t justify my existence by erasing yours. Nah, I don’t think this falcon will go into flight. I won’t use any silly f*cking catchphrases to sound cool. I’ll just say this.
The title’s f*cking mine.”
Drake runs his hands through his hair and looks into the camera for just a few more moments before walking off camera… and this sh*t is done.
Drake Vinaldi:
”Please tell me you people are f*cking kidding. No, I’m being serious. Please tell me that ALL of you motherf*ckers AREN’T being serious. Do you seriously think that I’m supposed to be intimidated by all of you dumb pieces of sh*t rambling on for ten hours about how you’re going to win this tournament? Jesus f*cking Christ, I guess it’s just the new fad to talk your asses off and try to fool yourselves into ACTUALLY believing that you have a CHANCE of becoming THE Pro Wrestling Warrior. I mean sh*t, I like to try and keep things short and to the f*cking point, but I’ve been pissed off to a goddamn point where I have to ramble because if I don’t, my anger won’t be subsided and instead of just kicking some motherf*cker in the head later tonight, I’m going to kick their head OFF. Then it’s going to fly into the crowd with such force that it hits a goddamn old lady in the gut, killing her, causing her dentures to fly out and stab into some little kid’s head. Then I’m going to get arrested for triple homicide, and I won’t be able to compete, then all of you stupid motherf*ckers will be to blame for Drake Vinaldi being put on the electric chair and being sentenced to an early death.
…
Sh*t.”
Vinaldi is breathing heavily now, and he proceeds to kick his gym bag with force, sending it flying across the locker room and out of camera view. Drake begins to pace back and forth while still speaking.
Drake Vinaldi:
”I’d like to apologize for the sudden outbreak of anger, but it just seemed necessary. F*ck man… it’s just that when everybody has a chance of wearing gold around their waist it’s like they won’t shut the f*ck up. I don’t want to hear Darius Falcon talk for more than thirty seconds. Hell, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t ever hear the whiny bitch talk at all. The only time I’d ever have to hear his voice is when he’s screaming in pain after I kick him in the damn kidney and he’s pissing urine of the blood colored variety. But damn, you know what, I’ve got to be perfectly honest with you people.
I want that f*cking title. And it isn’t because I just like gold or some stupid sh*t like that. No. It’s not about that. It’s about the f*cking pride that comes with the title. Pain is temporary. Pride is forever. And every single goddamn night that I go out to that ring, I endure more pain than I did the last time I fought. And why do I do it? Because I’m some sick f*cker that derives sexual pleasure from it? No, because if I did, not only would I f*cking love boys, but you’d see a bulge bursting from my goddamn pants every night. I go through more pain because I want to be the best. I’ve proven time and time again that I can dish it out and receive it.
No, Roderick, I don’t mean that in the ‘let’s f*ck little boys’ sense. Quit drinking so goddamn much. That’s not a vagina, it’s a man’s goddamn assh*le.
Anyway… I’ve proven that I can go with the best and endure things that the rest can’t. I’ve had my head dropped onto ladders, I’ve been put through tables, I’ve been choked out, I’ve been busted open. To be brief, I’ve been f*cking taken to the cleaners on many occasions. But I’ve also given my opponents the same sh*t right back. It might seem like I’m going off on a tangent, God knows some of these other pieces of sh*t have, but what I’m trying to say is that I deserve that PWW World Championship more than anybody else does. From day one in this company, I’ve talked sh*t and I’ve backed it up. Seth Frost, the ol’ Snowman knows that. Darius Falcon, the Jesus hater knows that. Roderick Brooks, the dumbass drunkard knows that.
And Crimson Hawk just probably doesn’t remember because I kicked him in the f*cking head too hard. Nice mask, you little bastard.
Whenever I say that I’m going to do something, I follow up. If I say I’m going to kick you in the head… well, I’ll do it. If I say I’m going to make you tap out like a little bitch… then yeah, you will.
And usually, if I say you f*cking love boys, then everybody probably knows that it’s true.
Whatever, I digress once again. I want the goddamn title. I will compete with… heh… murderous intent. I will do anything to be known as THE Pro Wrestling Warrior. I’ll put my body on the line, and hell, I’ll sacrifice my own life for it.
Why?
Because that’s what a f*cking Champion does. You fight until you can’t fight anymore. Broken bone? F*ck it, I’ll break that thing back into place. Torn muscle? I’ve got plenty of others where that came from. Laceration on my forehead? Give me a f*cking tissue, it’s just blood. I will not stop until I cannot go any further. And that means that you have to cut off my legs and my arms, pour f*cking cement into my lungs, and take out my f*cking brain. But until all of those things are done, I will keep fighting, because that’s just who I am.
Now, I could keep going. I could give a ten minute speech about each one of my possible opponents. I could make some dumbass f*cking pun about my destiny being fulfilled. I could smack steel chairs into other foreign objects to try and make myself look like a badass. But why waste time with that? Why look like an idiot? Instead of doing anything stupid, I’ll just say this. The Lizard King loses first. Then the next two get to face the same fate. No, I won’t justify my existence by erasing yours. Nah, I don’t think this falcon will go into flight. I won’t use any silly f*cking catchphrases to sound cool. I’ll just say this.
The title’s f*cking mine.”
Drake runs his hands through his hair and looks into the camera for just a few more moments before walking off camera… and this sh*t is done.