Post by David Atkins on Feb 6, 2006 1:04:10 GMT -5
The interview didn't go as planned, but then how could it? Kyle Azinma and the 'Real' Travis King did not, could not, have a reputation for being dependable on the microphone. Granted, 'RTK' was apparently very popular in a certain demographic, mostly as a result of his intimate relationship with the word 'fuck,' as was Kyle, who was better known for his history with the LOC and long-term association with Travis King (the really real Travis King), but neither could be termed a genius, or even particularly good at, working a crowd. 'RTK,' through his insistence that he was Travis King, often alienated the majority of the audience, whereas Kyle... well, Kyle was Kyle, simply put. Hence, the interviewer, T.J. Collinsworth, found himself quite happy with the end result of his half an hour session with the two that had produced exactly seven minutes of usable, but pointless, video, and would be cut down to, at best, two and a half minutes before it ever made T.V. If it made T.V.
All was not well, however, in the camp of Azinma and RTK. Granted, they normally got along great, as well as any pair of asylum rejects could, but sometimes... Well, you take two delusional whack-jobs, put them together long enough, and sooner or later one of them is going to step on the other's toes. It would become a playground situation in an adult world; 'My fantasy doesn't include your fantasy.' That was the case here, as the interview came to a close, and T.J. Collinsworth was all too happy to have it on film.
Kyle, as any avid viewer of LOC programming is bound to know, was 5'10." How much he weighed was irrelevant, for although announcers still remarked upon this stat, it had been proven in the LOC from the very beginning that the smaller men were every bit as capable as those bigger than themselves. After all, the very first LOC Champion in history had been a cruiserweight who defeated Paul Wight, the dreaded Giant who commanded the nWo, in what was, at the time, one of the biggest upsets in wrestling history. In this matter, height became relevant only because of Kyle's decade-old friendship with Travis King, and the 'Real' Travis King's particular psychosis.
Everybody knew that Travis King was taller than Kyle; they had appeared so often on television together that any fan whom had ever watched any significant amount of LOC programming would know that to be an absolute fact. Travis King stood perhaps 6'4." However, the 'Real' Travis King was several inches shorter than Kyle, even with his odd haircut that was shaped to look like a crown. And, although Kyle had from the very beginning played along with RTK's delusions, on this particular night he crossed a line. He allowed reality to intrude. At the end of their promo, which both of them was particularly happy with, Kyle did a double take and gave his tag team partner an odd look. "Huh," he had said. "I'm taller than you." That was the exact moment at which the proverbial shit hit the fan.
"FUCK YOU!" RTK had screamed in Kyle's face, and then to T.J. Collinsworth. "AND FUCK YOU!"
There was no consoling him, no calming him down. He wouldn't have it. Reality, not even in it's smallest measure, had nothing to do with RTK's world. He preferred it that way. And so he threw his fit, growling phrases that were incoherent save for the regular repetition of the word 'Fuck!' Finally, in his rage, he did an about-face and stormed away. His last words came drifting back, and these last words would close the promo when it finally aired on LOCtv; "You fuckers are fuckers!!"
Several hours later, RTK was still angry. And not only was he still angry, he was hurt. Such was his pain that it actually made him physically ill. He was Travis King, in his head. And Kyle? Kyle was his friend! His trusty sidekick against the forces of evil! And now, all of this sudden, Kyle doubted him? The man that had come to be known as 'RTK' couldn't bear it, and so all of that pain, and all of that anger, burrowed ever deeper into him and had finally merged to create an entirely new creature within his head; a plan.
Sort of.
Night had fallen and their apartment was dark; 'RTK' crept out of his own room and cast about, searching, looking to make sure that Kyle had not made it back yet. He hadn't. And so, with a grin, the 'Real' Travis King eased open the door to Kyle's room and crept inside. It was here that he would execute his 'plan.' Upon arriving back at the apartment, he had gone into the kitchen and raided the fridge. From there, he had gone into his room, his arms loaded with every drink he could carry; Coke, Pepsi, A&W Cream Soda, Milk, even a little of the beer RTK had bought to keep up his image as 'Travis King.' What else would he drink, after all? He drank all of them, everything, as quickly as he could and... then he waited. And waited. He waited until his bladder was full, so full that it felt it would burst if he did not relieve himself. That was the sign that he had been waiting for, the signal that it was time to execute his 'plan.'
In Kyle's room, he crawled up on the bed and then stood up. He cast a nervous eye back toward the door. He had plenty of time, and forced himself to relax. Then, like Brian Pillman in an ECW ring, he whipped out his johnson and let go. And it felt soooo good.
"Fu-aaaaahk..."
"What the hell...?!"
RTK snapped his head back around to look at the door again. There was Kyle, home at last, with his mouth hanging open. His expression was somewhere between outraged and incredulous. His tag-team partner was pissing all over his bed! What the hell was going on? The 'Real' Travis King was as shocked as Kyle. Holy fuck, he was caught! What to do, what to do? Say something! he silently screamed at himself. And then it came to him, a brilliant idea that could not possibly fail, the perfect story with which to explain away the entire situation.
"Oh Fuck!" He exclaimed, even as the last of his dribbled down to stain the sheet between his feet. "The fucking cat just took a big fucking piss on your bed!" And then, just for good measure as he gave himself a little shake and tucked it away. "Fuck!"
Kyle's expression slowly changed into one of outrage. He glared at his 'friend,' his 'partner.' And then he spoke; "You bought a cat?!"
"FUCK!"
All was not well, however, in the camp of Azinma and RTK. Granted, they normally got along great, as well as any pair of asylum rejects could, but sometimes... Well, you take two delusional whack-jobs, put them together long enough, and sooner or later one of them is going to step on the other's toes. It would become a playground situation in an adult world; 'My fantasy doesn't include your fantasy.' That was the case here, as the interview came to a close, and T.J. Collinsworth was all too happy to have it on film.
Kyle, as any avid viewer of LOC programming is bound to know, was 5'10." How much he weighed was irrelevant, for although announcers still remarked upon this stat, it had been proven in the LOC from the very beginning that the smaller men were every bit as capable as those bigger than themselves. After all, the very first LOC Champion in history had been a cruiserweight who defeated Paul Wight, the dreaded Giant who commanded the nWo, in what was, at the time, one of the biggest upsets in wrestling history. In this matter, height became relevant only because of Kyle's decade-old friendship with Travis King, and the 'Real' Travis King's particular psychosis.
Everybody knew that Travis King was taller than Kyle; they had appeared so often on television together that any fan whom had ever watched any significant amount of LOC programming would know that to be an absolute fact. Travis King stood perhaps 6'4." However, the 'Real' Travis King was several inches shorter than Kyle, even with his odd haircut that was shaped to look like a crown. And, although Kyle had from the very beginning played along with RTK's delusions, on this particular night he crossed a line. He allowed reality to intrude. At the end of their promo, which both of them was particularly happy with, Kyle did a double take and gave his tag team partner an odd look. "Huh," he had said. "I'm taller than you." That was the exact moment at which the proverbial shit hit the fan.
"FUCK YOU!" RTK had screamed in Kyle's face, and then to T.J. Collinsworth. "AND FUCK YOU!"
There was no consoling him, no calming him down. He wouldn't have it. Reality, not even in it's smallest measure, had nothing to do with RTK's world. He preferred it that way. And so he threw his fit, growling phrases that were incoherent save for the regular repetition of the word 'Fuck!' Finally, in his rage, he did an about-face and stormed away. His last words came drifting back, and these last words would close the promo when it finally aired on LOCtv; "You fuckers are fuckers!!"
Several hours later, RTK was still angry. And not only was he still angry, he was hurt. Such was his pain that it actually made him physically ill. He was Travis King, in his head. And Kyle? Kyle was his friend! His trusty sidekick against the forces of evil! And now, all of this sudden, Kyle doubted him? The man that had come to be known as 'RTK' couldn't bear it, and so all of that pain, and all of that anger, burrowed ever deeper into him and had finally merged to create an entirely new creature within his head; a plan.
Sort of.
Night had fallen and their apartment was dark; 'RTK' crept out of his own room and cast about, searching, looking to make sure that Kyle had not made it back yet. He hadn't. And so, with a grin, the 'Real' Travis King eased open the door to Kyle's room and crept inside. It was here that he would execute his 'plan.' Upon arriving back at the apartment, he had gone into the kitchen and raided the fridge. From there, he had gone into his room, his arms loaded with every drink he could carry; Coke, Pepsi, A&W Cream Soda, Milk, even a little of the beer RTK had bought to keep up his image as 'Travis King.' What else would he drink, after all? He drank all of them, everything, as quickly as he could and... then he waited. And waited. He waited until his bladder was full, so full that it felt it would burst if he did not relieve himself. That was the sign that he had been waiting for, the signal that it was time to execute his 'plan.'
In Kyle's room, he crawled up on the bed and then stood up. He cast a nervous eye back toward the door. He had plenty of time, and forced himself to relax. Then, like Brian Pillman in an ECW ring, he whipped out his johnson and let go. And it felt soooo good.
"Fu-aaaaahk..."
"What the hell...?!"
RTK snapped his head back around to look at the door again. There was Kyle, home at last, with his mouth hanging open. His expression was somewhere between outraged and incredulous. His tag-team partner was pissing all over his bed! What the hell was going on? The 'Real' Travis King was as shocked as Kyle. Holy fuck, he was caught! What to do, what to do? Say something! he silently screamed at himself. And then it came to him, a brilliant idea that could not possibly fail, the perfect story with which to explain away the entire situation.
"Oh Fuck!" He exclaimed, even as the last of his dribbled down to stain the sheet between his feet. "The fucking cat just took a big fucking piss on your bed!" And then, just for good measure as he gave himself a little shake and tucked it away. "Fuck!"
Kyle's expression slowly changed into one of outrage. He glared at his 'friend,' his 'partner.' And then he spoke; "You bought a cat?!"
"FUCK!"