Post by 'Bama Brooks on Jan 31, 2016 22:30:51 GMT -6
"Jet lag's a bitch, ain't it?"
It ain't jet lag, idiot. It's the in-flight tap...
"Yeah, right."
How the fuck you gon' get jet lag on a five hour flight south? God damn!
"Hey... hey. Watch yer P's and Q's. S'ladies present."
"Sir?"
Julius Brooks was too busy thanking the Lord Almighty for mirror shades and Pepto Bismol when the baggage claim attendant addressed him, pulling him from his alcohol-induced reverie as he leaned up against the service desk. Cue the eyebrow (on point), the hair flip (exquisite), and that signature, smug ol' grin (a classic). The attendant was not impressed.
"What can I do for ya, darlin?"
Preoccupied and unamused, the attendant hardly looked up from her computer monitor. "Your luggage, sir. It's been recovered. There was a slight mix-up--"
"--about damn time!"
"... yes, sir. We have your suitcase right here," the attendant disappeared for a brief moment behind her desk, placing the worn-out case on top with delicate care. Julius dragged it by the handle and let its weight bring his arm down abruptly. "If you could just sign the release, everything will be in order. Thank you for your patience."
Julius had his signature down to a science. It was a shame he hadn't signed an autograph in twenty years.
Puerto Rico in the winter was the ideal place for a man like 'Bama Brooks. Hot enough to buy drinks with little umbrellas in them on the beach, cool and wet enough to keep the rest of the mainland American tourists away until Spring Break, and populated by enough mamacitas to make that first bit a little more interesting. The cabbie was a kid, probably twenty-something, tanned deeply. He didn't say a word as Brooks put his bags in the back and directed him to the hotel; he assumed he didn't speak English.
"This ain't my first rodeo, y'know," 'Bama started, taking off his shades to rub his bleary eyes. "Been down 'round here plenty of times, in my line of work. First real gig was probably... oh, 'round about eighty-five? Eighty-six, maybe?"
Brooks had asked the cab driver rhetorically, but he was hoping for some kind of answer. The kid simply stared through the rear view mirror, car rumbling through the thicker airport traffic as they made their way out of the city.
Still, Brooks persisted. "Matter of fact, it was eighty-five. Christ alive, was I green at the gills back then. The plucky south'ron boy, all smiles and big hair, before I was the baddest man this side of the Mississippi... not that the Mississippi applies here, I suppose. As I recall, it was a two-outta-three with Marcel Duchampion for the TV Title... good God, I can't even remember who we were workin' for back then. Guess it don't matter, either way. Those were the good ol' days. The nitty-gritty days, the I Like to Hurt People days... 'fore the veil was lifted. 'Fore they done killed what made us doing what we do so special. Real fights, real wrasslin', and real dumb sons-a-bitches workin' the ring. Did damn near the whole year with that Title 'fore the place closed up shop. Then, ran into Marcel again in Japan, which was one helluva surprise... and after that..."
Brooks trailed off. The kid was still fucking looking at him.
"... do you know any of these people, or what the hell I'm talkin' about, son?"
Silent staring.
"Do you know who I am?"
Nothing.
Before he could fly into a tirade about kids these days, and no respect, and back in his day, Brooks sighed, taking some air in through his nose and flipped his mirror shades back on.
"They don't make 'em like that anymore..."
Oh, my oh my, is it good to be back!
As the bard tells it, 'rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated'. Didya miss me? Oh, who am I kiddin', 'course you did! The wrasslin' world's been thirsty as a blind dyke at a fish market for the Alabama Brooks to make his return! It's been far too long, folks, but your patience has paid off; I'm locked and loaded, baby!
And look what you've done with the place since I've left... a goddamn pig sty.
Lemme tell ya, the state of wrasslin' today? It ain't lookin' too good.
I turn my back for one second, and all of a sudden, these vanilla midgets have gone and built goddamn hobbit holes all over my hard work! What the hell's all this flippy shit? This lucha libre garbage, these oompa-loompas makin' damn fools of 'emselves all over my squared circle, the House That 'Bama Built. And look at you! Y'all're eatin' it up, just takin' it all in like it's the greatest good y'all're ever gonna get! The fat chick on prom night, the whole lot of ya. It's a disgrace, daggummit, a disgrace!
But y'all poor, misguided folk don't have to worry no more. Good ol' 'Bama's back, y'see, and let's just say... there's gonna be some real changes 'round here.
First of all, this Visionary Rumble, this eight man slug-fest at the Coliseo, we're fightin' for a title shot. Alright, that's all well and good, but what the hell kind of a title is the Zero Gravity Championship? What in blue blazes is that s'posed to mean? Back when I ran the show, we had real men fightin' for real gold - Heavyweight Championships, Intercontinental Championships, National Championships. What, you folks loved to slob on the knobs of these jumpin' beans with tacky masks that you gave 'em a Zero Gravity title? Don't get me wrong, I'll put all seven of them bastards over the top rope faster than you can say 'limination, but let's just say, when I win that Zero Gravity Championship - and that's only a matter of time, friends - I'm gonna take it back for the real, down-and-dirty wrasslers, doin' some real work in that ring. You better believe it, and you heard it here first from 'Bama Brooks.
And then there's the matter of my... for lack of a better word, 'competition', if you will. The fine people here at VoW decided to mark my historic debut with their promotion at Double Jeopardy in an eight-man battle royal. Lemme tell ya, I've seen a whole lot worse odds than that and made it out on top, and y'all know me - I'll knock any challenge you throw my way outta the park, 'cause boy, I swing for the fences. I couldn't have been happier, to showcase how a real wrassler, a true professional hones his craft. Then, I took a look at the seven other sad excuses in the ring with me. God as my witness, if this is some sorta elaborate joke, y'all got me! A gaggle of ragtag bitches and some upper-crust daddy's girls, in the ring with Alabama Brooks? Let's just say if that's a joke, I'll give ya one helluva punchline.
I look at these mean-lookin' rude dudes, The Lunatic Dustin Holt, Lukas Emery, and whatever the hell this 'Jay-mo' bugger is, and I can't help but feel sorry for 'em, y'know? They don't know what they're steppin' in the ring with. They ain't gonna know what hit 'em when they go ass-over-teakettle over that top rope. Dustin Holt may talk tough, like he's got somethin' to prove, but when I put a body on the floor, no matter how much fight they think they got in 'em, they don't get back up. One simple maneuver, takes a split second to do, y'all may have heard of it, the Alabama Slam? It'll leave even a big guy like Grim Ragnar-somethin's brains spillin' out his ears on the mat, that's for damn sure. I ain't skeered of nothin' or nobody.
So, y'all can bring on your silly cartoon characters like Jay-mo, or your uppity butch lunchladies like Val Beasley, or your little teacup princesses like Rebecca Saint and Alec Rose. It won't be enough to stop 'Bama Brooks. I ain't interested in forgin' no alliances, or makin' no friends. That's another thing y'all punk kids have gone and forgotten; the wrasslin' bidness is just that, a bidness. This is still a bidness to me, and friends, bidness is always boomin' when I'm in the ring. Now that I'm back, you ain't takin' me out of it so soon. Y'all're gonna have to throw everything you've got at me, and it ain't never gonna stop me! And lemme tell you somethin' else: if any one of 'em pulls a fast one on ol' 'Bama Brooks, I ain't goin' down alone. I'm the kind of guy who don't go down too easy. I'm the kind of guy who'll drop a mean deuce and use your hand to wipe. I'm a mean, lean, top rope-eliminatin' machine, and if you take me out, I'll sure as shootin' take you the hell with me.
On the seventh day, God finished the work He had made, and rested. Well, consider this a wake-up call for Him, for VoW, and for the rest of the wrasslin' world. I'm back... and badder than ever.
It ain't jet lag, idiot. It's the in-flight tap...
"Yeah, right."
How the fuck you gon' get jet lag on a five hour flight south? God damn!
"Hey... hey. Watch yer P's and Q's. S'ladies present."
"Sir?"
Julius Brooks was too busy thanking the Lord Almighty for mirror shades and Pepto Bismol when the baggage claim attendant addressed him, pulling him from his alcohol-induced reverie as he leaned up against the service desk. Cue the eyebrow (on point), the hair flip (exquisite), and that signature, smug ol' grin (a classic). The attendant was not impressed.
"What can I do for ya, darlin?"
Preoccupied and unamused, the attendant hardly looked up from her computer monitor. "Your luggage, sir. It's been recovered. There was a slight mix-up--"
"--about damn time!"
"... yes, sir. We have your suitcase right here," the attendant disappeared for a brief moment behind her desk, placing the worn-out case on top with delicate care. Julius dragged it by the handle and let its weight bring his arm down abruptly. "If you could just sign the release, everything will be in order. Thank you for your patience."
Julius had his signature down to a science. It was a shame he hadn't signed an autograph in twenty years.
Puerto Rico in the winter was the ideal place for a man like 'Bama Brooks. Hot enough to buy drinks with little umbrellas in them on the beach, cool and wet enough to keep the rest of the mainland American tourists away until Spring Break, and populated by enough mamacitas to make that first bit a little more interesting. The cabbie was a kid, probably twenty-something, tanned deeply. He didn't say a word as Brooks put his bags in the back and directed him to the hotel; he assumed he didn't speak English.
"This ain't my first rodeo, y'know," 'Bama started, taking off his shades to rub his bleary eyes. "Been down 'round here plenty of times, in my line of work. First real gig was probably... oh, 'round about eighty-five? Eighty-six, maybe?"
Brooks had asked the cab driver rhetorically, but he was hoping for some kind of answer. The kid simply stared through the rear view mirror, car rumbling through the thicker airport traffic as they made their way out of the city.
Still, Brooks persisted. "Matter of fact, it was eighty-five. Christ alive, was I green at the gills back then. The plucky south'ron boy, all smiles and big hair, before I was the baddest man this side of the Mississippi... not that the Mississippi applies here, I suppose. As I recall, it was a two-outta-three with Marcel Duchampion for the TV Title... good God, I can't even remember who we were workin' for back then. Guess it don't matter, either way. Those were the good ol' days. The nitty-gritty days, the I Like to Hurt People days... 'fore the veil was lifted. 'Fore they done killed what made us doing what we do so special. Real fights, real wrasslin', and real dumb sons-a-bitches workin' the ring. Did damn near the whole year with that Title 'fore the place closed up shop. Then, ran into Marcel again in Japan, which was one helluva surprise... and after that..."
Brooks trailed off. The kid was still fucking looking at him.
"... do you know any of these people, or what the hell I'm talkin' about, son?"
Silent staring.
"Do you know who I am?"
Nothing.
Before he could fly into a tirade about kids these days, and no respect, and back in his day, Brooks sighed, taking some air in through his nose and flipped his mirror shades back on.
"They don't make 'em like that anymore..."
Oh, my oh my, is it good to be back!
As the bard tells it, 'rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated'. Didya miss me? Oh, who am I kiddin', 'course you did! The wrasslin' world's been thirsty as a blind dyke at a fish market for the Alabama Brooks to make his return! It's been far too long, folks, but your patience has paid off; I'm locked and loaded, baby!
And look what you've done with the place since I've left... a goddamn pig sty.
Lemme tell ya, the state of wrasslin' today? It ain't lookin' too good.
I turn my back for one second, and all of a sudden, these vanilla midgets have gone and built goddamn hobbit holes all over my hard work! What the hell's all this flippy shit? This lucha libre garbage, these oompa-loompas makin' damn fools of 'emselves all over my squared circle, the House That 'Bama Built. And look at you! Y'all're eatin' it up, just takin' it all in like it's the greatest good y'all're ever gonna get! The fat chick on prom night, the whole lot of ya. It's a disgrace, daggummit, a disgrace!
But y'all poor, misguided folk don't have to worry no more. Good ol' 'Bama's back, y'see, and let's just say... there's gonna be some real changes 'round here.
First of all, this Visionary Rumble, this eight man slug-fest at the Coliseo, we're fightin' for a title shot. Alright, that's all well and good, but what the hell kind of a title is the Zero Gravity Championship? What in blue blazes is that s'posed to mean? Back when I ran the show, we had real men fightin' for real gold - Heavyweight Championships, Intercontinental Championships, National Championships. What, you folks loved to slob on the knobs of these jumpin' beans with tacky masks that you gave 'em a Zero Gravity title? Don't get me wrong, I'll put all seven of them bastards over the top rope faster than you can say 'limination, but let's just say, when I win that Zero Gravity Championship - and that's only a matter of time, friends - I'm gonna take it back for the real, down-and-dirty wrasslers, doin' some real work in that ring. You better believe it, and you heard it here first from 'Bama Brooks.
And then there's the matter of my... for lack of a better word, 'competition', if you will. The fine people here at VoW decided to mark my historic debut with their promotion at Double Jeopardy in an eight-man battle royal. Lemme tell ya, I've seen a whole lot worse odds than that and made it out on top, and y'all know me - I'll knock any challenge you throw my way outta the park, 'cause boy, I swing for the fences. I couldn't have been happier, to showcase how a real wrassler, a true professional hones his craft. Then, I took a look at the seven other sad excuses in the ring with me. God as my witness, if this is some sorta elaborate joke, y'all got me! A gaggle of ragtag bitches and some upper-crust daddy's girls, in the ring with Alabama Brooks? Let's just say if that's a joke, I'll give ya one helluva punchline.
I look at these mean-lookin' rude dudes, The Lunatic Dustin Holt, Lukas Emery, and whatever the hell this 'Jay-mo' bugger is, and I can't help but feel sorry for 'em, y'know? They don't know what they're steppin' in the ring with. They ain't gonna know what hit 'em when they go ass-over-teakettle over that top rope. Dustin Holt may talk tough, like he's got somethin' to prove, but when I put a body on the floor, no matter how much fight they think they got in 'em, they don't get back up. One simple maneuver, takes a split second to do, y'all may have heard of it, the Alabama Slam? It'll leave even a big guy like Grim Ragnar-somethin's brains spillin' out his ears on the mat, that's for damn sure. I ain't skeered of nothin' or nobody.
So, y'all can bring on your silly cartoon characters like Jay-mo, or your uppity butch lunchladies like Val Beasley, or your little teacup princesses like Rebecca Saint and Alec Rose. It won't be enough to stop 'Bama Brooks. I ain't interested in forgin' no alliances, or makin' no friends. That's another thing y'all punk kids have gone and forgotten; the wrasslin' bidness is just that, a bidness. This is still a bidness to me, and friends, bidness is always boomin' when I'm in the ring. Now that I'm back, you ain't takin' me out of it so soon. Y'all're gonna have to throw everything you've got at me, and it ain't never gonna stop me! And lemme tell you somethin' else: if any one of 'em pulls a fast one on ol' 'Bama Brooks, I ain't goin' down alone. I'm the kind of guy who don't go down too easy. I'm the kind of guy who'll drop a mean deuce and use your hand to wipe. I'm a mean, lean, top rope-eliminatin' machine, and if you take me out, I'll sure as shootin' take you the hell with me.
On the seventh day, God finished the work He had made, and rested. Well, consider this a wake-up call for Him, for VoW, and for the rest of the wrasslin' world. I'm back... and badder than ever.
