Post by Brett Carson on Jun 2, 2014 11:55:56 GMT -6
I told you all...I warned you...I told you all that I’d make a bigger god damn impact than anyone else on the show and that I didn't even need to wrestle to do it…
Bobby, despite the absolute beating he took from yours truly, still has the gall to tweet and make mediocre “jokes” but no amount of jokes can subside the shooting pain in his neck or the ringing in his ears ever since I introduced him to a solid, steel chair right on the noggin.
Why? Well I’ll tell you wh- wait...I don’t get paid for...all of this...you wanna know why I made the impact I did and forever left the memory of Brett Carson standing tall over Bobby Backdoor etched in your brain?...fork out money, buy a ticket and come find out for your god damn selves at Breakthrough #3. I’ll give my reasoning on my time, when I want.
But hey I’m sure the people would’ve spent their money anyway to come see Brett Carson make an impact just like I did last week...Don’t deny it, by the end of the show people weren’t talking about Alexander Oliver...who for the record lost to a coward who chooses to hid his face behind a scuba diving mask just like I predicted he would over Twitter, they weren’t talking about Joka and Cera (more on her later) and they damn sure weren’t talking about that mockery of a main event...You were all talking about the absolute destruction of Bobby Backdoor, courtesy of “The Next Level Athlete”.
Speaking of mockery of main events, Steve Frei just isn’t learning...the previously mentioned main event for last week was the love child of Chewbacca and Neil Patrick Harris going one on one with a psycho black man who, in my assumption is probably far too addicted to explosions and magic mushrooms...and this week, well this week it’s music week (and we’re nowhere near Memphis! Blasphemy, Frei!), ladies and gentlemen above the likes of actual wrestling talent like myself, Scott Knight, hell even Seth Iser...Steve Frei books Elvis Presley two stepping against a fat, even more drugged up Kurt god damn Cobain. Meth is not good folks, these two freaks are prime examples as to why.
It sickens me to see circus clowns getting opportunities like this...But alas, what do you do? Well to answer the rhetorical question...wrestle and keep bumping shit up to the next level...that’s what I’d do and that’s what I plan to do against Cera.
+ + +
You’d think someone like Brett, who’s yet to get a victory in VOW, would sit quietly and not run his mouth the way he has but that just isn’t his nature...The engine and motor revs loudly as he rides in on his full black, shiny metallic black Yamaha FZ6, he’s geared up in a black leather bike jacket and a fully black bike helmet and casual blue faded jeans. He yanks the helmet off his head as a look of confusion is planted on his face. In front of him a large sign reads:
“Minnesota Mental Facility”
...and underneath a small little subheading reads, “Specializing in care for dementia patients, mentally disabled and medically insane.”. Brett raises an eyebrow before chuckling at the overall bluntness of the weathered and fading sign.
Why was he here? Well, he really didn’t know. All he knew was he was reached out by a mysterious individual who claimed to be a respected person in the wrestling industry and was very much familiar with Brett’s upcoming opponent...Cera. So now Carson stands here...in front of a mental asylum, slowly trying to fit the pieces together.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waitin’, Mr. Carson…” A gruff, rather familiar sounding voice reaches out to Brett as “The Next Level Athlete spun around with helmet in hand, a little startled by the sudden voice.
“Relax, relax...I mean no physical harm, Brenton.” And there in front of him stands the legend, Bronson Goldward or otherwise known to the wrestling world as the masked Bronx Goldie.
Brett smirks as the final piece is placed in the mental puzzle going on in his head. Bronx Goldie was famously known for wrestling all over Japan, Mexico, Russia, England and Germany all the while staying far away from America, he wrestled wearing a gold mask so his real identity as Bronson Goldward, the rogue runaway child of a large family (a family you’re all familiar with), would never be found out, it was his “running away to the circus” so to speak and he kept it well hidden for his whole career. After being successful all across the globe and wrestling some true legends of the industry (including “Mr. Wrestling” Steven Frei), Goldie disappeared off of the wrestling scene, retiring to his home in The Bronx, New York. That was all up until mid-last year...Bronx re-appeared, not as a wrestler but as a mentor, to whom? Well, after much searching, he would mentor his already experienced 6 year pro nephew…”Ultraviolent” Owen Gonsalves. But with the recent early retirement of the Ultraviolent one...it leaves Bronx in the dark.
Bronx, in his famous black pinstripe suit and gold tie, walks up right into the face of Brett who only looks back with a smug smirk on his face.
“You don’t seem to be relaxing, kid...Do I intimidate ya?” Bronx smiles, sensing the confidence and ego Brett has before Carson can even speak.
“Nah...You don’t intimidate me, gramps. Why’d you bring me here, Goldie? Why are you here?” Brett slightly tenses up before breathing heavily and placing his helmet on the seat.
Bronx smiles and shakes his head before looking up at the mental asylum sign, “I didn’t return to the wrestling scene as a non-wrestler just to be dumped to the side months later because my client or apprentice rather is...healing...internally and externally.” Bronx sugarcoats the incident that happened in an old company cause by Joka, the reason why Owen no longer shows his face on television.
Brett grins, “Healing? I call it cowardice, but I would hide too if I sobbed like a child and...soiled my pants while taking a beating on live TV. Poor lad…” Brett chuckles in an almost merciless manner as Bronx sighs heavily in disappointment and frustration.
“Right. Well, while he’s in recovery I feel that my knowledge and cunning attitude as well as my experience could benefit someone like you and after seeing that attack on Bobby, I’m impressed already.” Bronx proclaims as he starts walking towards the wood framed, glass door entrance of the simple, small asylum.
Brett follows behind as the summer breeze starts to slowly pick up, “Everyone seems to be...As for you offer...I’ll keep it in mind and let you know after this week. Let’s see how good you are though...explain to me why we’re here, Mr. Goldie.” He questions, glaring through the window from the distance as Bronx stops in front of it..
“It shouldn’t be all that difficult, your opponent this week is Cera...this is a mental asylum. As much as they say ‘mental facility’, they really mean ‘mental asylum’. Home of the psychotic, insane and home of a few Minnesota natives with most likely murderous intentions. Keepin up so far?” Goldward blabbers.
Brett nods as the older, wrestling legend momentarily looks at Carson through the reflection of the glass before pushing the door open and being whaffed by the stench of chemicals, death and cheap bug repellent. Bronx pulls out his handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and covers his nose while Brett cups his hands over his mouth and nostrils in an attempt to cut off the awful stench. The reach the knackered lobby window where a short, aging woman in around her early 50’s sits in a blue ripped up apron and a stained surgical mask, that covers her mouth. She’s slowly clicking away on an old box set computer PC, Bronx coughs from the smell as well as trying to alert her, which he’s successful in.
“Yes, how can I help you?” Her voice is rather cranky and nasally, like the sound your voice makes when your nose is pinched together and you try to speak. She looks up away from the computer slowly and towards Bronx.
“Hi...I’d like a visitor’s pass for two to see patients, Sarah Bell and Janice Un . I believe they’re in rooms 0695 and 0696. We’ll only be 20 minutes at best. My name is Bronson Goldward and the other one is for Brett Carson, that’s for your reference.” Bronx proclaimed before the lady tapped in a few keys on her dirty old keyboard before looking up at the screen and nodding, giving the okay for the men to follow through.
They walk past the counter and reach a door locked up with, chains and a large padlock and a chubby Indian looking security guard standing in front. After a moment of waiting the lady from the counter is heard over the security guard’s walkie talkie as she describes both men.
“One old, fellah’ with blonde sandy hair...real nice suit with gold tie, a little on the ugly side. Other guy should be young and decently toned, jet black hair...sexy guy, would fuck him for sure…if those are the lads standing in front of ya….let ‘em innn…Sarah B and Kim Janice Un is who dey wanna see...” She banters before ending the announcement. The reaction on all three men are different, the security guard chuckles as he begins the unlock the main gate while Brett smirks a little before finally glaring towards Bronx, annoyed and a little butt hurt by the harsh lady.
The door clings and clangs opens and the guard walks through the narrow hallways, screams and vulgar shouting goes on as inmates and crazed lunatics shout at the sound of visitors, some bang against the steel wall and startle Brett...Bronx however doesn't seem phased by the rattling and shouting.
“You been here before…? You don’t really seem to be phased much by these lunatics and their antics” Brett questions, keeping one eye on the solid steel wall and one eye on Goldie.
“When you’ve seen and done the shit I’ve seen and done these retards won’t phase you one bit either, kid…” Bronx thus far has pushed forward a cleaner cut hard nailed, veteran image rather than his loudmouth, rowdy and immature image he once pushed while siding with Owen.
“I’M NOT A RETARD, SHITFACE!” A young sounding man with a thick southern accent yells from his enclosure, his voice dropping from the 4 worded sentence.
“Don’t kid yourself, boy...You wouldn’t be in here if you weren’t” Bronx calmly replies, shutting up that rowdy mentally challenged man but the rest of the ones locked up have a chance to be loud.
After what seems like forever, they land on block 0695...Sarah Bell’s cell...She’s quiet...Silent. Bronx nods to the guard who slides a piece of wood out of a small square on the metal door revealing a square window and standing right behind the door..face rammed against the tiny window (scaring the crap out of Brett in the process)...Her hair is a dirty brown and she looks, tired and weak but still able to break someone’s neck. She backs away from the window, walking to the farthest corner of the room, giving Brett a chance to see that she’s no small woman...tall and stocky, like most MEN her age should be but are not.
“Sarah Lee Bell, 39 years old...She’s a schizophrenic who was dumped her by her grandparents 2 years ago. She screams murder once a day...almost a few weeks ago her grandparents died, no trace of anyone near their bodies yet they were both mauled to death...She has no family members but yet is happy with her own company and occasionally the girl next door. She’s considered a psycho and for all the right reasons but she’s dangerous and could end you in a click of the fingers...kinda like you’re opponent this Tuesday huh?” Bronx runs down Sarah Bell’s story and as he finishes up, the security guard closes the window as they move to ‘the girl next door’.
Much like before the guard opens up the window revealing a skinny short asian lady, a happy go insane grin on her face…
“Janice Un, 51...The smartest woman in this asylum, she portrays herself as a dumb imbecile who only wants fun and games but in the grand scheme of things, she’s the ring leader. All arrows always point back to her and it’s that innocent nature that poorly disguises all inner evil, that’s what makes her truly insane…Much like Jen Ryette, buttsex loving sidekick to Cera...or so she leads you to believe. Keep a close eye on her every move.” Bronx smirks as he looks coldly into the cell like room…
“How do you know all this information? How can I know you’re not just leading me on?” Brett questions, a look of confusion and uncertainty written all over his dashing face.
“You can’t tell from just looking at them? The way they look, move and act tells their story...These two are the under rated threats in the asylum, much like Cera and Jen Ryette are the under rated threats in this Visionaries of Wrestling place. Cera is going to rip you limb from limb, Brett...Joka is psycho...Cera is more than that. You best be prepared.” Bronx advices and with a nod of his head, the guard shuts the window and they start to walk back out..
“Thats it? That’s what we came here for? To look into two random insane freaks in this fucked up asylum…?” Brett is dumbfounded that he’d fallen for something so stupid, a typical mad act from Goldie.
Bronx smirks before fixing up his tie and collar, “There is a method to my madness, Mr. Carson...You see Sarah and Janice...They proved that they belong in this madhouse. Cera plans to do the very same thing...prove she belongs in VoW, but now you know the insanity you have coming your way.” Bronx chuckles slightly before he starts whistling, “...Oh...the insanity. I’m curious...What did you learn today Brett?” Bronx asks as the guards pushes the door open and the misty, dark and narrow corridor is left behind for the rotten stench of medication and dead people
“That Cera will fit perfectly in a mental asylum after I’m done with her?” Brett cockily chuckles…
Bronx simply sighs, “Cocky when he really shouldn’t be...I guess I can appreciate that. Damn modern world…”
Oooohh thhhee insanity….
_+F A D E T O B L A C K+_
