Post by David Atkins on Mar 3, 2006 1:32:13 GMT -5
Um... what am I supposed to do?
I never worry 'bout the devil in you...
...bring her along and I'll fuck her too!
I never worry 'bout the devil in you...
...bring her along and I'll fuck her too!
The Beautiful Creatures commanded the undivided attention of the audience, proclaiming the arrival of Travis King to their answering roar. There were cheers, and there were boos. After all, while quite a few people had long since fallen completely in love with Travis King thanks to his defiant attitude, his abusive language, and his whatever-else that had caught their eyes, there were at least as many more whom despised him for those very same reasons. It increased his longevity in the spotlight, however, that he was more or less indifferent to their reactions. He noticed them, barely, but he didn't live his life with his chest constricted in worry over what they thought of him. If they wanted to cheer, he appreciated it in his own particular way. If they wanted to boo... well, fuck 'em. Such was the philosophy of Travis King; hate me and I'll hate you back, cock suckers!
Pushing the curtains aside, Travis walked out onto the stage in his street clothes-- that is, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt featuring a stripper's silhouette above the caption 'I support Single Moms!' He already had a microphone in-hand. It had been, conveniently, in the hands of one of several faceless crew members whom had been lurking near the curtain as if expecting him. Which they were, of course. That was their job; support the money-makers, give them what they need. Travis had never been known to trample them, to treat them like dirt as so many other superstars had throughout history, but he didn't really give a shit about them either. They were there, he was there, they did their job and he did his. That's all there was to it.
As he dragged his gaze from one end of the arena to the other, raking the crowd with his eyes, he wondered to himself, 'What to say?' Again unlike so many other superstars, unlike a certain Bob Clarke or a Casanova a decade before, Travis rarely, if ever, thought out his 'speeches' before hand. No, he would wait until he was out there and it was time to start talking, and then he would open his mouth and spew forth whatever came out. Fortunately, impulse worked for him. The one time he had tried it the other way, in the dim and dusty pages of LOC history, he had flopped horribly when he'd tried to present his practiced and thought out material to the fans. Ultimately, what it came down to was that he was a good bullshitter and a shitty writer. So be it, he'd decided, and had never looked back.
"For those of you just tuning in," Travis began with a smirk in a sarcastic tone of voice, "I am Travis King... and these are the days of our lives!"
"Seriously!" He cried as he began to pace, gesturing with his free hand emphatically as he spoke. "In the past several months I've been thrown in jail, shot, comatose, replaced by some faggot doppelganger they're calling RTK, assaulted in the hospital, held in contempt at the trial of the bastard kid that was accused of shooting me, marked a 'bad boy' by the DA's office, and forced out of the ring by our squeaky new security force because they thought the boss might be offended by what I had to say."
"And that's just me!" He continued, pacing toward the other side of the stage as he began his second list. "That's just me! We've also got Athos, whom happens to be screwing Julia, whom happens to be fucking Kentos, whom happens to be banging Athos, whom happens to be married to some dude named Deacon Demon or some shit like that! We've got Khrystal Walker, that humongous ape on steroids, and her 'manager,' a certain 'Frankenbear,' whom is now 'dead.' And let us not forget, 'Frankenbear' was 'murdered' by a Darth Vader knock-off from the LOC's past whom has only recently broken out of some second-rate federal pen... I guess the Force is strong in that one!"
"Oh, man, what was I thinking?" Switching gears, Travis placed his hand upon his forehead and sank to his knees. "What was I thinking? I've become a part of a company that signed four freaks straight out of the mental hospital, that has a giant Neanderthal bitch as a champion, that is owned by a couple of 'Musketeers,' that is... well... it's fucked up, right? Fucked up to say the least. And I'm not even a champion. Somehow, someway, I've allowed myself to be beaten, down-trodden and buried in this company of freaks. I just... well... "
Travis rose, with tears in his eyes, and looked out across the crowd silently for a long moment. Then he walked to the other side of the stage and did the same. Finally, as if coming to a decision that weighed heavily upon him, Travis let out a long sigh and allowed his head to droop, his chin almost-- but not quite-- coming into contact with his chest.
"I'm done." His voice came in a whisper. Then he raised his head as if rallying himself, drawing strength from his choice. "I'm done! Fuck this Looney Toon shit!"
With that, his body language exclaiming his anger even more loudly than his words, Travis turned on his heel and stormed away, back through the curtains that separate the arena from the backstage area. All was silent for a moment... and then the crowd began to rumble, in anger and confusion, in surprised exclamations. Nobody knew exactly how to respond to King’s outburst. Nobody knew anything, save that Travis was, in fact, gone, and apparently gone for good.
Or perhaps not.
Travis was waiting, remaining just beyond the curtains and out of sight of everyone save a few bewildered crew members as he listened to the crowd’s response. It occurred to him that this would have been a stunt more appropriate for the first of next month, April Fool’s Day, but the thought slipped away as quickly as it came to him. He was waiting for a spot, for a moment that he knew would come. Or, perhaps, for a feeling, for the impulse that had always served him so well when it came to his work on the microphone. It wasn’t long, really, but sometimes a few moments can seem to last for an eternity. That feeling he was waiting for struck him, urged him, and he acted.
"On second thought," he spoke into the microphone as he reemerged from the backstage area, a grin on his face as the grumbling crowd fell silent. "Maybe I'll stick around. I mean, after all, I'm booked for this IC tournament anyway, right? And after I win it, maybe I'll take that shiny new belt, and I'll wear it for a month or so to give it a little credibility. God knows, this company needs some. And then, when I'm done with it, I'll take it to Turning Point in April and I'll stuff it up the REAL champion's ass! It'd be a nice trade, right? She gets a shit-smeared B-belt, and I'll take hers."
"And if there's anybody out there who thinks I can't, or won't, get it done," Travis growled, glaring into a camera to the right of the ramp that leads down to the ring and taking a step backwards, preparing to make good his final exit, "then you don't know who the fuck I really am. But I will be all too happy to enlighten you."
Finished, Travis turned away and tossed the microphone over his shoulder before disappearing from sight once again. It landed with a ‘thud!’ that was audible throughout the entire arena, for the arena was silent again. But it did not remain that way. It began to rumble again, more ominously than before. There were disagreements, even a few heated arguments, as the people began to vocalize their opinions; Travis was right! Travis was wrong! Travis fucking ROCKS! Travis is a fuckhead! Khrystal Walker, a far-more-than-slightly popular champion, received a lot of support as the mood in the arena darkened. Not even Travis’ music, which thundered to life too late to catch his exit, could drown out the turmoil.
Don't try to blame me
I won't be your lame excuse
Don't try to change me
I live my life and I don't need you!
I'll Never do what you want me to do!
I'll Never be what you want me to be!
I'll never do what you want me to do!
I never worry 'bout the devil in you...
...bring her along and I'll fuck her too!
I never worry 'bout the devil in you...
...bring her along and I'll fuck her too!
The Beautiful Creatures commanded the undivided attention of the audience, proclaiming the arrival of Travis King to their answering roar. There were cheers, and there were boos. After all, while quite a few people had long since fallen completely in love with Travis King thanks to his defiant attitude, his abusive language, and his whatever-else that had caught their eyes, there were at least as many more whom despised him for those very same reasons. It increased his longevity in the spotlight, however, that he was more or less indifferent to their reactions. He noticed them, barely, but he didn't live his life with his chest constricted in worry over what they thought of him. If they wanted to cheer, he appreciated it in his own particular way. If they wanted to boo... well, fuck 'em. Such was the philosophy of Travis King; hate me and I'll hate you back, cock suckers!
Pushing the curtains aside, Travis walked out onto the stage in his street clothes-- that is, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt featuring a stripper's silhouette above the caption 'I support Single Moms!' He already had a microphone in-hand. It had been, conveniently, in the hands of one of several faceless crew members whom had been lurking near the curtain as if expecting him. Which they were, of course. That was their job; support the money-makers, give them what they need. Travis had never been known to trample them, to treat them like dirt as so many other superstars had throughout history, but he didn't really give a shit about them either. They were there, he was there, they did their job and he did his. That's all there was to it.
As he dragged his gaze from one end of the arena to the other, raking the crowd with his eyes, he wondered to himself, 'What to say?' Again unlike so many other superstars, unlike a certain Bob Clarke or a Casanova a decade before, Travis rarely, if ever, thought out his 'speeches' before hand. No, he would wait until he was out there and it was time to start talking, and then he would open his mouth and spew forth whatever came out. Fortunately, impulse worked for him. The one time he had tried it the other way, in the dim and dusty pages of LOC history, he had flopped horribly when he'd tried to present his practiced and thought out material to the fans. Ultimately, what it came down to was that he was a good bullshitter and a shitty writer. So be it, he'd decided, and had never looked back.
"For those of you just tuning in," Travis began with a smirk in a sarcastic tone of voice, "I am Travis King... and these are the days of our lives!"
"Seriously!" He cried as he began to pace, gesturing with his free hand emphatically as he spoke. "In the past several months I've been thrown in jail, shot, comatose, replaced by some faggot doppelganger they're calling RTK, assaulted in the hospital, held in contempt at the trial of the bastard kid that was accused of shooting me, marked a 'bad boy' by the DA's office, and forced out of the ring by our squeaky new security force because they thought the boss might be offended by what I had to say."
"And that's just me!" He continued, pacing toward the other side of the stage as he began his second list. "That's just me! We've also got Athos, whom happens to be screwing Julia, whom happens to be fucking Kentos, whom happens to be banging Athos, whom happens to be married to some dude named Deacon Demon or some shit like that! We've got Khrystal Walker, that humongous ape on steroids, and her 'manager,' a certain 'Frankenbear,' whom is now 'dead.' And let us not forget, 'Frankenbear' was 'murdered' by a Darth Vader knock-off from the LOC's past whom has only recently broken out of some second-rate federal pen... I guess the Force is strong in that one!"
"Oh, man, what was I thinking?" Switching gears, Travis placed his hand upon his forehead and sank to his knees. "What was I thinking? I've become a part of a company that signed four freaks straight out of the mental hospital, that has a giant Neanderthal bitch as a champion, that is owned by a couple of 'Musketeers,' that is... well... it's fucked up, right? Fucked up to say the least. And I'm not even a champion. Somehow, someway, I've allowed myself to be beaten, down-trodden and buried in this company of freaks. I just... well... "
Travis rose, with tears in his eyes, and looked out across the crowd silently for a long moment. Then he walked to the other side of the stage and did the same. Finally, as if coming to a decision that weighed heavily upon him, Travis let out a long sigh and allowed his head to droop, his chin almost-- but not quite-- coming into contact with his chest.
"I'm done." His voice came in a whisper. Then he raised his head as if rallying himself, drawing strength from his choice. "I'm done! Fuck this Looney Toon shit!"
With that, his body language exclaiming his anger even more loudly than his words, Travis turned on his heel and stormed away, back through the curtains that separate the arena from the backstage area. All was silent for a moment... and then the crowd began to rumble, in anger and confusion, in surprised exclamations. Nobody knew exactly how to respond to King’s outburst. Nobody knew anything, save that Travis was, in fact, gone, and apparently gone for good.
Or perhaps not.
Travis was waiting, remaining just beyond the curtains and out of sight of everyone save a few bewildered crew members as he listened to the crowd’s response. It occurred to him that this would have been a stunt more appropriate for the first of next month, April Fool’s Day, but the thought slipped away as quickly as it came to him. He was waiting for a spot, for a moment that he knew would come. Or, perhaps, for a feeling, for the impulse that had always served him so well when it came to his work on the microphone. It wasn’t long, really, but sometimes a few moments can seem to last for an eternity. That feeling he was waiting for struck him, urged him, and he acted.
"On second thought," he spoke into the microphone as he reemerged from the backstage area, a grin on his face as the grumbling crowd fell silent. "Maybe I'll stick around. I mean, after all, I'm booked for this IC tournament anyway, right? And after I win it, maybe I'll take that shiny new belt, and I'll wear it for a month or so to give it a little credibility. God knows, this company needs some. And then, when I'm done with it, I'll take it to Turning Point in April and I'll stuff it up the REAL champion's ass! It'd be a nice trade, right? She gets a shit-smeared B-belt, and I'll take hers."
"And if there's anybody out there who thinks I can't, or won't, get it done," Travis growled, glaring into a camera to the right of the ramp that leads down to the ring and taking a step backwards, preparing to make good his final exit, "then you don't know who the fuck I really am. But I will be all too happy to enlighten you."
Finished, Travis turned away and tossed the microphone over his shoulder before disappearing from sight once again. It landed with a ‘thud!’ that was audible throughout the entire arena, for the arena was silent again. But it did not remain that way. It began to rumble again, more ominously than before. There were disagreements, even a few heated arguments, as the people began to vocalize their opinions; Travis was right! Travis was wrong! Travis fucking ROCKS! Travis is a fuckhead! Khrystal Walker, a far-more-than-slightly popular champion, received a lot of support as the mood in the arena darkened. Not even Travis’ music, which thundered to life too late to catch his exit, could drown out the turmoil.
Don't try to blame me
I won't be your lame excuse
Don't try to change me
I live my life and I don't need you!
I'll Never do what you want me to do!
I'll Never be what you want me to be!
I'll never do what you want me to do!