Post by Blue Suede Bruce on Jun 9, 2014 18:34:32 GMT -6
Vance again lifts me up for a vertical suplex this time, but his inexperience with throws allows me to throw my balance back to my feet and I plant them firmly on the mat. With a deep breath, I know hoist my opponent straight up for a vertical and follow through grounding him back first into the canvas. Vance, out of pure reaction to the pain staggers to his feet and falls back against the ropes. Although with that punk attitude of never say die, the man who knows this town like the back of his hand charges at me and I see his arm raise up for a clothesline. He lifted it too early, allowing me to see my opening and duck it. I didn’t even think about it but I grabbed him from behind and spun him out for my Moody Blue Thunder Driver. Sitting out, I hold him in place.
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . NO! This guy dressed in grungy street clothes is able to, somehow by the grace of the good lord above, kick out even after all we’ve endured in this grueling battle... We roll to our knees and Vance clubs me down with a blunt clothesline. Just planted down on the mat, the slightest part of me wants to stay down for a little bit, before I get up. Am I in ring shape? For the most part, yes. However my stamina is not as great as the likes of young bucks like PKA or even veterans like Matt Slater. Slater and I aren’t to far in age, but I would imagine his years in the business would give him more wear than I. I fight back up to my feet and turn around, just for Vance to plant his foot right in my breadbasket. The air rushed out of me and I hunched over, as he anticipated and took me down with his Roc Crusher. The arrogance of not pressing his cover or hooking my leg, really upset me.
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . Not so fast, Vancy, my boy, I think as I kick out of the pin. The look on his face is priceless, he thought I was out. But he pushes me back on my back and this time throws his weight on top of my chest.
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . But with great defiance I force myself to kickout and Vance in a fit of irritation throws himself off to the side and starts punching the mat. Everyone of his blows to the canvas resonates in my ear drums. The packed crowd of his own hometown start chanting “YOU CAN’T BEAT HIM”. Their claps, their chants drive me to strive and do better. With the turn of my head I see Vance turning his frustration into aggression and he springboards off the ropes and hits me with a senton splash. Leaning back on top of me, he hooks my leg
1 . . KICKOUT!
Not today, Vance... I need this win more than you do. I need to my first win to a professional wrestling competition that wasn’t in that school back in Mississippi.
Vance with his eyes wide and mouth agape can’t believe it. The crowd grows more and more hungry for what’s to come as they mock Vance LaRoc and his inability to keep me down for the count. I feel their emotions, their energy. Charging back to my feet, the grunge rocker nails me with a fist, I don’t feel it. It no longer registers. Only my will to carry on and become the best wrestler I can be surges through my veins. I charge towards LaRoc and clothesline him. Any harder and I may have knocked him out of his boots, I then squat as he gets back up and I lift him up on to my shoulders. It’s knees to chest time. But Vance wiggles out and drops to one knee in front of me. Next thing I know, a shot right to my loins and he tries to roll me up for the pin. In absolute pain, I have no idea what’s going on but the referee isn’t counting Vance’s cover on me. Instead he’s throwing hand gestures and words I can’t understand towards the timekeeper.
DING! DING! DING!
Vance is confused just as much as I am. He was looking the other way and didn’t see what was going on. The crowd is now booing and jeering. I haven’t heard a crowd this heated since my mic chord cut out at a show in Las Vegas, rendering my performance a dud.
“The winner of the match, as a result of a disqualification, BLLLUUE SUEDE BRUUUUCEEE!”
That’s right, Vancy Boy hit me below the belt... It was a disqualification... I wanted to win, but not this way. Not this way. This was my match to show that I was more than some two bit Elvis Impersonator. I am who I am. Charismatic, some may say I’m flamboyant but the fact of the matter is that I trained in one of the grittiest schools the south has to offer. I love wrestling just as much as I love rock and roll, but because I’m not ashamed to openly throw my love of rockabilly in the forefront. However, I know these fans really appreciate me, and I appreciate them. It’s just guys in the back like Vance LaRoc, and that homophobic Brett Carson that I want to show. I need to show them that I do belong here. In this ring, in this sport, I belong.
“Come on, that’s the man’s geeeeeeeetar!” I heard Jackie shouting. I turn over to him and see him looking towards the far side of the ringside area and Vance LaRoc had Ole Blue raised up high and... no he defaced her. He defaced my guitar... How could he?
“Leave Ole Blue alone, she did nothing to ya!” I plea. They fell on deaf ears as Vance didn’t seem to hear a word I said. Jackie did though and he rushes over trying to take Ole Blue back, but Vance just stares and him and shakes his head. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his lips looked to be mouthing out some sort of apology before ramming Ole Blue into Jackie’s forehead. That piece of trash! My anger rises and I quickly climb through the ropes and drop down off the apron. Getting in between Vance and my brother, I point at Vance for him to stand back, so I can check on Jackie.
“Jackie, you okay? Can you hear me?”
My brother is unresponsive, I look behind me to keep LaRoc in my sites but he’s gone for now... How can this sport as portrayed in a company named Visionaries of Wrestling condone such unsportsmanlike conduct? My brother is laid out and we’re now being swarmed by medics. Through the commotion I hear the roar of an engine. The only car around was Jackie’s Caddy... Jackie’s Caddy??? Jackie’s Caddy!
My attention is drawn back to where we made our entrance and there is Vance backing my brother’s chariot back towards the Minnesota State hockey team’s Zamboni entrance. I glance back down at Jackie before rushing over the barricade... Too late...
“Brucie... She was my baby. I had AM, FM, XM, eight track, cassette, CD six disc changer, mp3... Chrome rims and hubcaps, White wall tires... Fresh aqua paint. The seal skin seats!!! Brucie, the seal skin seats!!!”
“I’m sure the local authorities will find your car. At least we’re staying in Mankato for the week, so we didn’t have to rent another car.”
“Brucie... I invested so much in that car, and it was Daddy’s car. You know it’s irreplaceable. And he graffiti tagged Ole Blue, and took her too... Daddy bought you that guitar before he passed. This Vance LaRoc cat is making this personal and the thing is, we did nothing to him. Why did he have to take our most valued, our prized possessions?”
“I don’t know, why. But obviously he wanted my attention and now he’s got it because nobody makes a personal attack on me and my family.”
Slamming my fists on the dresser in the motel room, I look at the document that was delivered to me. It was a transcript of my opponent’s parting words from the promotion he had just left to come here.
“Patrick Jones, now there’s somebody I could respect. A man of passion, speaks his mind, does it all for the right reasons. It sounds like this promoter fella in Chicago the one who ran that juggernaut of a company finally got under Patty Cake’s skin. This man sent back the money that NEW paid him in full up front for the dates he chose not to show up for. Most men take the money when they run, Patrick Jones however is a man of class.”
Jackie just pulls out a chair from under the table he was leaning on and sits in it while drawing out a long sigh.
“That’s cool. I would feel better to manage you through a match built upon sportsmanship and athletic ability. Rather than that three-ring circus that Vance LaRoc caused last week. Sounds like Patrick Jones is the real deal. His name is recognizable being in NEW, and TEW before that. It’s funny though, for a guy never to gain major accomplishments, he has a career showing longevity, and he’s still in his 20s. He’s younger than, ya Brucie and been in the business longer as well... What are you gonna do about it?”
“Listen man, I’m only 32. I still got energy left with in my body.”
“Flabby, barrel chested body...”
“Speaking of which I’m hungry...”
Walking over to the fridge I pull out a loaf of bread, and a half used jar of grape jelly. I grab the jar of peanut butter and a banana off the shelf...
“Want one?”
“Not in the mood...”
“I’d reckon it would make ya feel better.”
“Fine.”
“Cool, cause it’s peanut butter, banana, jelly time!”
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . NO! This guy dressed in grungy street clothes is able to, somehow by the grace of the good lord above, kick out even after all we’ve endured in this grueling battle... We roll to our knees and Vance clubs me down with a blunt clothesline. Just planted down on the mat, the slightest part of me wants to stay down for a little bit, before I get up. Am I in ring shape? For the most part, yes. However my stamina is not as great as the likes of young bucks like PKA or even veterans like Matt Slater. Slater and I aren’t to far in age, but I would imagine his years in the business would give him more wear than I. I fight back up to my feet and turn around, just for Vance to plant his foot right in my breadbasket. The air rushed out of me and I hunched over, as he anticipated and took me down with his Roc Crusher. The arrogance of not pressing his cover or hooking my leg, really upset me.
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . Not so fast, Vancy, my boy, I think as I kick out of the pin. The look on his face is priceless, he thought I was out. But he pushes me back on my back and this time throws his weight on top of my chest.
1 . . .
2 . . .
3 . . But with great defiance I force myself to kickout and Vance in a fit of irritation throws himself off to the side and starts punching the mat. Everyone of his blows to the canvas resonates in my ear drums. The packed crowd of his own hometown start chanting “YOU CAN’T BEAT HIM”. Their claps, their chants drive me to strive and do better. With the turn of my head I see Vance turning his frustration into aggression and he springboards off the ropes and hits me with a senton splash. Leaning back on top of me, he hooks my leg
1 . . KICKOUT!
Not today, Vance... I need this win more than you do. I need to my first win to a professional wrestling competition that wasn’t in that school back in Mississippi.
Vance with his eyes wide and mouth agape can’t believe it. The crowd grows more and more hungry for what’s to come as they mock Vance LaRoc and his inability to keep me down for the count. I feel their emotions, their energy. Charging back to my feet, the grunge rocker nails me with a fist, I don’t feel it. It no longer registers. Only my will to carry on and become the best wrestler I can be surges through my veins. I charge towards LaRoc and clothesline him. Any harder and I may have knocked him out of his boots, I then squat as he gets back up and I lift him up on to my shoulders. It’s knees to chest time. But Vance wiggles out and drops to one knee in front of me. Next thing I know, a shot right to my loins and he tries to roll me up for the pin. In absolute pain, I have no idea what’s going on but the referee isn’t counting Vance’s cover on me. Instead he’s throwing hand gestures and words I can’t understand towards the timekeeper.
DING! DING! DING!
Vance is confused just as much as I am. He was looking the other way and didn’t see what was going on. The crowd is now booing and jeering. I haven’t heard a crowd this heated since my mic chord cut out at a show in Las Vegas, rendering my performance a dud.
“The winner of the match, as a result of a disqualification, BLLLUUE SUEDE BRUUUUCEEE!”
That’s right, Vancy Boy hit me below the belt... It was a disqualification... I wanted to win, but not this way. Not this way. This was my match to show that I was more than some two bit Elvis Impersonator. I am who I am. Charismatic, some may say I’m flamboyant but the fact of the matter is that I trained in one of the grittiest schools the south has to offer. I love wrestling just as much as I love rock and roll, but because I’m not ashamed to openly throw my love of rockabilly in the forefront. However, I know these fans really appreciate me, and I appreciate them. It’s just guys in the back like Vance LaRoc, and that homophobic Brett Carson that I want to show. I need to show them that I do belong here. In this ring, in this sport, I belong.
“Come on, that’s the man’s geeeeeeeetar!” I heard Jackie shouting. I turn over to him and see him looking towards the far side of the ringside area and Vance LaRoc had Ole Blue raised up high and... no he defaced her. He defaced my guitar... How could he?
“Leave Ole Blue alone, she did nothing to ya!” I plea. They fell on deaf ears as Vance didn’t seem to hear a word I said. Jackie did though and he rushes over trying to take Ole Blue back, but Vance just stares and him and shakes his head. I couldn’t hear what he said, but his lips looked to be mouthing out some sort of apology before ramming Ole Blue into Jackie’s forehead. That piece of trash! My anger rises and I quickly climb through the ropes and drop down off the apron. Getting in between Vance and my brother, I point at Vance for him to stand back, so I can check on Jackie.
“Jackie, you okay? Can you hear me?”
My brother is unresponsive, I look behind me to keep LaRoc in my sites but he’s gone for now... How can this sport as portrayed in a company named Visionaries of Wrestling condone such unsportsmanlike conduct? My brother is laid out and we’re now being swarmed by medics. Through the commotion I hear the roar of an engine. The only car around was Jackie’s Caddy... Jackie’s Caddy??? Jackie’s Caddy!
My attention is drawn back to where we made our entrance and there is Vance backing my brother’s chariot back towards the Minnesota State hockey team’s Zamboni entrance. I glance back down at Jackie before rushing over the barricade... Too late...
“Brucie... She was my baby. I had AM, FM, XM, eight track, cassette, CD six disc changer, mp3... Chrome rims and hubcaps, White wall tires... Fresh aqua paint. The seal skin seats!!! Brucie, the seal skin seats!!!”
“I’m sure the local authorities will find your car. At least we’re staying in Mankato for the week, so we didn’t have to rent another car.”
“Brucie... I invested so much in that car, and it was Daddy’s car. You know it’s irreplaceable. And he graffiti tagged Ole Blue, and took her too... Daddy bought you that guitar before he passed. This Vance LaRoc cat is making this personal and the thing is, we did nothing to him. Why did he have to take our most valued, our prized possessions?”
“I don’t know, why. But obviously he wanted my attention and now he’s got it because nobody makes a personal attack on me and my family.”
Slamming my fists on the dresser in the motel room, I look at the document that was delivered to me. It was a transcript of my opponent’s parting words from the promotion he had just left to come here.
“Patrick Jones, now there’s somebody I could respect. A man of passion, speaks his mind, does it all for the right reasons. It sounds like this promoter fella in Chicago the one who ran that juggernaut of a company finally got under Patty Cake’s skin. This man sent back the money that NEW paid him in full up front for the dates he chose not to show up for. Most men take the money when they run, Patrick Jones however is a man of class.”
Jackie just pulls out a chair from under the table he was leaning on and sits in it while drawing out a long sigh.
“That’s cool. I would feel better to manage you through a match built upon sportsmanship and athletic ability. Rather than that three-ring circus that Vance LaRoc caused last week. Sounds like Patrick Jones is the real deal. His name is recognizable being in NEW, and TEW before that. It’s funny though, for a guy never to gain major accomplishments, he has a career showing longevity, and he’s still in his 20s. He’s younger than, ya Brucie and been in the business longer as well... What are you gonna do about it?”
“Listen man, I’m only 32. I still got energy left with in my body.”
“Flabby, barrel chested body...”
“Speaking of which I’m hungry...”
Walking over to the fridge I pull out a loaf of bread, and a half used jar of grape jelly. I grab the jar of peanut butter and a banana off the shelf...
“Want one?”
“Not in the mood...”
“I’d reckon it would make ya feel better.”
“Fine.”
“Cool, cause it’s peanut butter, banana, jelly time!”