Post by Marsupials of Mayhem on Sept 22, 2021 20:09:22 GMT -5
Let’s set the scene.
It’s dark. It’s stereotypical wrestling promotional kinda dark.
The kinda dark you make when you want to illuminate something. Deep.
There’s a light bulb gently swinging in the darkness from a breeze that never existed and the background appears to be an exposed brick wall. Maybe an abandoned warehouse or something. It’s not important.
What is important steps into the glow.
He wears a Vince Carter Toronto Raptors throwback jersey and knee length khaki shorts. His luchadore mask leaves his mouth uncovered for an unkempt beard. The mask is grey, with a black nose and eyes… it’s important to note that the ears are fluffy. His exposed arms show glimpses of his fully tattooed body showing off 420 friendly affiliations and whatever the Hell else he felt like having tattooed on his body in the spur of whatever moment saw the gun press his flesh.
He makes a point of clearing his throat. That’s your cue to listen.
Ssssh!
“Oh hey. I’d tell you I wasn’t expecting you… but we all know that’s not true. I mean, who hangs out in a decrepit old shit hole underneath a dangling light bulb? I’m not Hunter Biden.”
He snickers for effect because canned laughter is so passé.
“For those keeping score at home, my name is Kid Koala.
“For those of you in Northern Pro, I’m just another guy you’re gonna aspire to understand.”
His index finger taps his temple as if by doing so he could inject a thought into yours.
“See, I’m not gonna stand here under the candescence of these lumens and tell you how I’m gonna kick your ass. Actions speak louder than words. So I’ll let my actions in the Battle Royale on September 16th at Fight for the Fallen speak loudly and clearly for me.”
Grimacing, he spits in disgust.
“Ugh… I feel dirty propagating so boldly.”
He tugs at that disgusting beard as though it brings him balance.
“For the record… I have no interest in measuring dicks with any of you. I don’t even KNOW you. If you think for a second I’ve been studying tape or have some sort of scouts nutting out who’s who in the zoo you’re tripping. If I wanted to get in a shit flinging contest I’d have turned up to my family reunion. I won’t stand here and call you names because sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt me.”
Kid Koala waggles a finger as if it were conducting baton orchestrating people far more talented than you or I. A thought strikes and that waggling finger turns upright in exclamation.
“No. I have a more important message to send to you all.
“Everything you know is about to CHANGE!”
He smiles at the camera, showing off a missing front tooth. Nodding slowly, you can tell his eyes are widening beneath the black cloth which hides them.
“See, everybody here has the agenda of being the biggest, baddest sonofabitch. Being the best thing since sliced bread… but sometimes life’s better when you grab a hold of the loaf and cut it however you God damn please.”
He rubs his hands together hastily, like a fly revelling in its own vomit.
“I’m not here to just take all them objects which fuel your phallic egocentrism. By all means, if you want to measure dicks be my guest but a twelve inch blade doesn’t always result in a kill.
“No… I’m here to carve out a legacy. And sometimes, when you got the knife, you cut off more than a chunk of bread. Sometimes, to feed the masses, you cut yourself. And I’m not afraid to spill a little blood.
“My own included.”
He pulls up his jersey, revealing scars on his torso, some of which look clean like they’ve been surgically repaired where others look like someone’s done a job in their backyard with twine and a knitting needle.
“And I’ve come for MY pound of flesh.”
Kid Koala points to his own temple.
“When theory becomes greater than relativity we all fall down. We all get cut. We all… bleed.”
Silently, he stands there as if he can hear your mind ticking, just waiting for the echoes in your brains left hemisphere.
“When their theory overcomes your relativity you will never EVER come up. You will always stay grounded. Always down. And their theory is DESIGNED to keep you down.”
He steps closer to the camera, his finger points to the ground in representation of his message.
“I am here to lift you up.
“NPW… I am HERE to raise riot to theory and revolutionise relativity and if you are not relevant…”
His face fills the screen, and he whispers...
“You’re dead.”
He steps back to allow the room to fill the screen, pulling a rolled up smoke of some description from his pocket and lighting it. Drawing deep into the depths of his bronchioles to exhale a plumage to shroud himself in mystery.
Cool, huh?
“So… who’s dying with me? Who am I making relevant in Nova Scotia?”
Fade to black.
It’s dark. It’s stereotypical wrestling promotional kinda dark.
The kinda dark you make when you want to illuminate something. Deep.
There’s a light bulb gently swinging in the darkness from a breeze that never existed and the background appears to be an exposed brick wall. Maybe an abandoned warehouse or something. It’s not important.
What is important steps into the glow.
He wears a Vince Carter Toronto Raptors throwback jersey and knee length khaki shorts. His luchadore mask leaves his mouth uncovered for an unkempt beard. The mask is grey, with a black nose and eyes… it’s important to note that the ears are fluffy. His exposed arms show glimpses of his fully tattooed body showing off 420 friendly affiliations and whatever the Hell else he felt like having tattooed on his body in the spur of whatever moment saw the gun press his flesh.
He makes a point of clearing his throat. That’s your cue to listen.
Ssssh!
“Oh hey. I’d tell you I wasn’t expecting you… but we all know that’s not true. I mean, who hangs out in a decrepit old shit hole underneath a dangling light bulb? I’m not Hunter Biden.”
He snickers for effect because canned laughter is so passé.
“For those keeping score at home, my name is Kid Koala.
“For those of you in Northern Pro, I’m just another guy you’re gonna aspire to understand.”
His index finger taps his temple as if by doing so he could inject a thought into yours.
“See, I’m not gonna stand here under the candescence of these lumens and tell you how I’m gonna kick your ass. Actions speak louder than words. So I’ll let my actions in the Battle Royale on September 16th at Fight for the Fallen speak loudly and clearly for me.”
Grimacing, he spits in disgust.
“Ugh… I feel dirty propagating so boldly.”
He tugs at that disgusting beard as though it brings him balance.
“For the record… I have no interest in measuring dicks with any of you. I don’t even KNOW you. If you think for a second I’ve been studying tape or have some sort of scouts nutting out who’s who in the zoo you’re tripping. If I wanted to get in a shit flinging contest I’d have turned up to my family reunion. I won’t stand here and call you names because sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt me.”
Kid Koala waggles a finger as if it were conducting baton orchestrating people far more talented than you or I. A thought strikes and that waggling finger turns upright in exclamation.
“No. I have a more important message to send to you all.
“Everything you know is about to CHANGE!”
He smiles at the camera, showing off a missing front tooth. Nodding slowly, you can tell his eyes are widening beneath the black cloth which hides them.
“See, everybody here has the agenda of being the biggest, baddest sonofabitch. Being the best thing since sliced bread… but sometimes life’s better when you grab a hold of the loaf and cut it however you God damn please.”
He rubs his hands together hastily, like a fly revelling in its own vomit.
“I’m not here to just take all them objects which fuel your phallic egocentrism. By all means, if you want to measure dicks be my guest but a twelve inch blade doesn’t always result in a kill.
“No… I’m here to carve out a legacy. And sometimes, when you got the knife, you cut off more than a chunk of bread. Sometimes, to feed the masses, you cut yourself. And I’m not afraid to spill a little blood.
“My own included.”
He pulls up his jersey, revealing scars on his torso, some of which look clean like they’ve been surgically repaired where others look like someone’s done a job in their backyard with twine and a knitting needle.
“And I’ve come for MY pound of flesh.”
Kid Koala points to his own temple.
“When theory becomes greater than relativity we all fall down. We all get cut. We all… bleed.”
Silently, he stands there as if he can hear your mind ticking, just waiting for the echoes in your brains left hemisphere.
“When their theory overcomes your relativity you will never EVER come up. You will always stay grounded. Always down. And their theory is DESIGNED to keep you down.”
He steps closer to the camera, his finger points to the ground in representation of his message.
“I am here to lift you up.
“NPW… I am HERE to raise riot to theory and revolutionise relativity and if you are not relevant…”
His face fills the screen, and he whispers...
“You’re dead.”
He steps back to allow the room to fill the screen, pulling a rolled up smoke of some description from his pocket and lighting it. Drawing deep into the depths of his bronchioles to exhale a plumage to shroud himself in mystery.
Cool, huh?
“So… who’s dying with me? Who am I making relevant in Nova Scotia?”
Fade to black.
