Viola Moonlight
I'm Literally Just Here for WZCW
Deadline is 11:59pm Central Time, Friday 14th December. Extensions as per thread.
Unscripted '12: Barbosa vs. SHIT
- Thread starter Viola Moonlight
- Start date
- Status
After Meltdown 81. Before Ascension 56.
A small bar (drinking establishment/purveyor of alchohol/pub) full of misfits, has-beens and losers. Bikers seemingly from a bygone era playing pool and smoking indoors, laughing and joking and talking of the old times when they used to beat up chicks and go cruising for guys, or perhaps the other way around. Washed up comedians performing on stage to a small jeering and heckling audience made up of people in no better a situation, Jay Leno is in the crowd taking notes. A highlight reel of Johnny Scumm playing on the tiny TV in the corner, watched by the envious Armando Paradyse and a larger figure known only as Daemonic. Circling them all is a mysterious man on a bicycle, having been riding for hours he is seemingly inexhaustible.
Outshining them all in the oddness capacity however is the solitary figure at the bar, it hasn’t bought a drink, it doesn’t have any money, it doesn’t understand the concept of money, there is very little it understands the concept of, and money is one of those things.
It had already engaged the barman in conversation, which will now be told via short flashback;
"NO!" Came the voice of Armstrong as we catch up with the present moment. Veering wildly off course, the cycling veteran rides straight through the Bikers playing pool, all of which nod their heads in respect to a fellow bike enthusiast and skids to a halt next to the stool with S.H.I.T on it.
"If I was really classy, I'd make a comment about there being a stool and a shit next to me," he said. "Instead I'll just stick with disgustingly blunt! If you go and sit in that corner with those guys, you are living up to your acronym!"
Acronym?
"If you choose to drink away your problems instead of facing them like a manbot then you dont deserve to call yourself S.H.I.T!"
"Huh?" Grunted the barman, confused and gruffly.
Lance Armstrong ignores the man, instead pulling out another syringe and injecting the thick, red contents into his arm, he raises said arm and gives the Machine a hefty slap across the faceguard. With his hand of course. This raises a chorus of surprised noises you generally hear from a group of assembled people. Jay Leno's chin wobbles in shock.
S.H.I.T is under attack! Destroy! Destroy!
"Thats the Machine I became a fan of! Thats the guy that beat Austin Reynolds in its debut! Thats the guy who with the other Apostles unleashed a reign of terror upon WZCW!"
"Your a fan of the bad guy?" Came the gruffly asked question.
S.H.I.T is not a "bad guy."
"I AM LANCE ARMSTRONG! I AM THE MOST EVIL CYCLIST TO HAVE EVER LIVED!" He erupted, causing a murmering among the crowd.
"Barbosa is your problem? He bought you a war the likes of which you have never experienced before? He was willing to go farther than anyone else before him to destroy you? How dare you back down? When Lance Armstrong came against a competitor who would dope as heavily as him, do you know what Lance Armstrong did?"
What did Lance Armstrong do?
"What did Lance Armstrong do?"
"Lance Armstrong doped harder than all those motherfuckers!" He slaps S.H.I.T on the chest armour. "Barbosa will tear the arena apart to tear you apart, Barbosa will tear anything apart to tear you apart. You've got to go farther than him, show him that you will sink to his level and then sink another level below that!"
"He cost you matches? Cost him matches! Wrap a barb wire baseball bat around his face!"
"THATS how you win seven tour de frances!"
But you had those titles taken away!
"Pfft yeah! But that doesnt matter, I know I was the best, so does everyone else, I was the best at cycling and I was the best at cheating, everyone else tried and none of them could match me! And I did it all with one bollock!" Lance is now pointing triumphantly at the ceiling with one hand, and his crotch with the other.
The faces surrounding Lance stare in awe at this peak of Humanity, even S.H.I.T could be considered to be impressed.
"Thats what you've got to do!"
Affirmative! Barbosa wants violence, he shall recieve violence! Starting at Ascension 56, S.H.I.T will finally come out of limbo and cost Barbosa against Bowen, then it will wrap a barb wire baseball bat around his head! After that it will be Barbosa wondering how far S.H.I.T will go to end this war, which could be culminating at Unscripted! S.H.I.T will give Barbosa all the violence he can handle at that event, S.H.I.T sees Lance's expression, correction! More than he can handle. In a Texas Deathmatch, in a Barbed Wire Match or in an Exploding C4 Match, it does not matter how ridiculous the stipulation, it will destroy Barbosa and continue its quest to the top of WZCW. . . and it will do it all with one bollock! S.H.I.T is now pointing triumphantly at the ceiling with one claw, and what can only be called its 'crotch area' with the other.
Lance shoots the Machine an approving look and gets a syringe of the thick red fluid out of his pocket.
"Here," he says, proffering the blood to S.H.I.T. "A boost."
Negative! Said S.H.I.T, gently pushing the syringe away. After Ascension and Unscripted it is Barbosa who will require the extra blood! Now, S.H.I.T must leave!
"You'll never make it to Ascension in time!
"You'll need transport!"
S.H.I.T stops and considers this.
"And you'll need to wrap up warm, its freezing out there!"
S.H.I.T turns towards the pool table, apparently scanning the bikers one by one, looking for a similar height and build, but unable to find anyone who has clothes that would fit over its sophisticated armour S.H.I.T heads towards the doors again, kicking them off their hinges. It turns to face the crowded bar, an expression radiating murderous rage.
S.H.I.T will proceed at an accelerated rate! It then exits, moving at a clumsy run.
Lance Armstrong watches it leave, then turns to face Paradyse and Daemonic sat in the corner, having forgotten about Johnny Scumm and now staring at the rapidly shrinking silhouette of the Machine.
"You two could learn a lot from that guy."
Both men have the decency to look ashamed.
ASCENSION 56!
A small bar (drinking establishment/purveyor of alchohol/pub) full of misfits, has-beens and losers. Bikers seemingly from a bygone era playing pool and smoking indoors, laughing and joking and talking of the old times when they used to beat up chicks and go cruising for guys, or perhaps the other way around. Washed up comedians performing on stage to a small jeering and heckling audience made up of people in no better a situation, Jay Leno is in the crowd taking notes. A highlight reel of Johnny Scumm playing on the tiny TV in the corner, watched by the envious Armando Paradyse and a larger figure known only as Daemonic. Circling them all is a mysterious man on a bicycle, having been riding for hours he is seemingly inexhaustible.
Outshining them all in the oddness capacity however is the solitary figure at the bar, it hasn’t bought a drink, it doesn’t have any money, it doesn’t understand the concept of money, there is very little it understands the concept of, and money is one of those things.
It had already engaged the barman in conversation, which will now be told via short flashback;
The doors to the strange saloon already described in the first paragraph swing open, the patrons of the bar all stare at the strange figure that walks through, some giving it odd looks while others only give it a passing glance, a Waitress who happens to cross its path carrying a tray of drinks makes a grunting noise and directs a look at the figure which can only be described as extremely provocative.
The figure is oblivious to all this at it merely walks up to the bar and sits down at the bar stool, the barman, who is cleaning glasses with a rag as they so often do, asks the thing what it would like to drink.
“What will you have?” Asks the Barman, implying he would like to know what the mysterious person would like to drink.
Is this the place where Humans come drown their sorrows and forget their problems? Replies the other character who we’ve frankly established is S.H.I.T, thereby removing the necessity to refer to it by other titles.
"Well, some of them it has to be said." Said the barman gruffly, this is a gruff bar and as such it is tended by a gruff barman.
Then why have the memories not gone? Asks S.H.I.T with its usual hollow, emotionless voice.
"Look pal," said the gruff barman gruffly. "Are you drinking or not?"
S.H.I.T is trying to forget the problem of Barbosa!
The barman slams his fists on the bar in a way that can only be described as gruffly. "Listen, Hector Barbosa was the best thing in a frankly tedious and overblown third Pirates Of the Carribean film."
Barbosa has brought a war to S.H.I.T's doorstep, an unrelenting torrent of anger and hatred, the likes of which S.H.I.T has never experienced before!
He has gone to levels S.H.I.T never thought possible! He has constantly been interfering in the Machines matches, causing distractions and losses!
S.H.I.T believed that it would deal with this problem at Apocalypse, but Barbosa withstood S.H.I.T's vicous punishment and emerged the victor!
S.H.I.T and Barbosa continued their war, even when they were supposed to be allies. . . Barbosa sacrificing a possible victory just to gain another attacking chance!
S.H.I.T has faced numerous enemies, most not interested in the Machine itself, but the idea of destroying its superior at that time. That was their downfall! Some have been intent on saving S.H.I.T, their claim was that S.H.I.T is not an "evil" Machine, their claims are true, there is no place for "evil" in the heart of a Machine, but their clouded judgement and moral values were their downfall!
S.H.I.T has never faced a foe so intent on destroying it as Barbosa!
S.H.I.T saw Meltdown, it saw the possible match scenarios it would have to face Barbosa in, if it showed up at Unscripted. Perhaps S.H.I.T will continue its apparently self imposed absence and leave him further infuriated.
"Listen pal. . ."
S.H.I.T wishes to forget it is S.H.I.T, then perhaps Barbosa will forget it is S.H.I.T and wage his war on another!
"Look buddy, are you drinking?" The barman managed to blurt out in a gruff way.
Drinking?
“Yeah pal, drinking. This is a bar! You want to forget? Have some alchohol!” He has stopped gruffly cleaning the glass and is now staring at S.H.I.T in what can only be described in a gruff manor.
The Machine analyses this briefly.
Which of your beverages contain alchohol?
The barman makes a tsk’ sound and gives the figure a stare, the kind of which gruff barmen reserve for the type of customer that could be considered a time waster. S.H.I.T simply stares back. Unnerved by his manliness being simply ignored the barman decides to answer the question.
“All of them buddy,” he eventually replies, although retaining a suitable amount of gruffness.
Not buddy!
“What?” Asks the barman. . . Gruffly.
Not buddy. . . S.H.I.T!
“That’s a bit harsh isn’t it?” Gruff, but with a small amount of joviality, depressed people can be heavy drinkers after all.
The man on the bicycle stops upon hearing this and turns a disgusted look at the barman.
“Don’t you think this poor wretched creature has heard that joke enough already?” He said accusingly.
The barman doesn’t take too kindly to this, pure gruffness replacing any amount of former joviality. “Now look here Armstrong! I might not have won seven tour de frances, I might not have even had my tour de frances stripped because it turned out I had more of other peoples blood in my system than count freaking Dracula! But I know funny! And that joke was funny!”
"And so was that comment about Dracula, God Damn It!"
Armstrong merely shakes his head, before pulling a syringe full of thick red fluid out of his pocket and injecting the contents into his leg and riding off with renewed purpose.
“Now what do you want, shit?” He said with as much kindness as his general gruffness would allow.
All of your drinks contain alchohol?
“For the last time, yes!” His patience was wearing thin and gruff people generally have a small amount, but he couldnt escape the feeling he was on to a winner here.
Then they will suffice!
The barman looks surprised, as surprised as a barman would look if a guy dressed in cardboard had just walked into his bar and tried to buy all of his drinks. “Maybe you should start smaller, this fine little number here” and here he gruffly indicates a bottle on the shelf, "will start you well on your way and will only set you back $10 a pop." He grins gruffly at the muffled laughter behind S.H.I.T.
Then that will suffice!
Unable to believe his luck the barman gruffly takes the bottle from the shelf, before turning and facing the Machine with a gruff expression.
"How will you be paying for that then?" You can probably guess the manor in which he asked this question.
By not destroying you and all of your customers!
This comment silences the bar.
"Okay pal, I can see your a special type of loser, we have a section for people like you," and here he gruffly indicates the corner occupied by Paradyse and Deamonic.
S.H.I.T looks a the dejected pair, both staring lustfully at the screen showcasing the career of Johnny Scumm.
Affirmative! Perhaps S.H.I.T belongs in that corner!
The figure is oblivious to all this at it merely walks up to the bar and sits down at the bar stool, the barman, who is cleaning glasses with a rag as they so often do, asks the thing what it would like to drink.
“What will you have?” Asks the Barman, implying he would like to know what the mysterious person would like to drink.
Is this the place where Humans come drown their sorrows and forget their problems? Replies the other character who we’ve frankly established is S.H.I.T, thereby removing the necessity to refer to it by other titles.
"Well, some of them it has to be said." Said the barman gruffly, this is a gruff bar and as such it is tended by a gruff barman.
Then why have the memories not gone? Asks S.H.I.T with its usual hollow, emotionless voice.
"Look pal," said the gruff barman gruffly. "Are you drinking or not?"
S.H.I.T is trying to forget the problem of Barbosa!
The barman slams his fists on the bar in a way that can only be described as gruffly. "Listen, Hector Barbosa was the best thing in a frankly tedious and overblown third Pirates Of the Carribean film."
Barbosa has brought a war to S.H.I.T's doorstep, an unrelenting torrent of anger and hatred, the likes of which S.H.I.T has never experienced before!
He has gone to levels S.H.I.T never thought possible! He has constantly been interfering in the Machines matches, causing distractions and losses!
S.H.I.T believed that it would deal with this problem at Apocalypse, but Barbosa withstood S.H.I.T's vicous punishment and emerged the victor!
S.H.I.T and Barbosa continued their war, even when they were supposed to be allies. . . Barbosa sacrificing a possible victory just to gain another attacking chance!
S.H.I.T has faced numerous enemies, most not interested in the Machine itself, but the idea of destroying its superior at that time. That was their downfall! Some have been intent on saving S.H.I.T, their claim was that S.H.I.T is not an "evil" Machine, their claims are true, there is no place for "evil" in the heart of a Machine, but their clouded judgement and moral values were their downfall!
S.H.I.T has never faced a foe so intent on destroying it as Barbosa!
S.H.I.T saw Meltdown, it saw the possible match scenarios it would have to face Barbosa in, if it showed up at Unscripted. Perhaps S.H.I.T will continue its apparently self imposed absence and leave him further infuriated.
"Listen pal. . ."
S.H.I.T wishes to forget it is S.H.I.T, then perhaps Barbosa will forget it is S.H.I.T and wage his war on another!
"Look buddy, are you drinking?" The barman managed to blurt out in a gruff way.
Drinking?
“Yeah pal, drinking. This is a bar! You want to forget? Have some alchohol!” He has stopped gruffly cleaning the glass and is now staring at S.H.I.T in what can only be described in a gruff manor.
The Machine analyses this briefly.
Which of your beverages contain alchohol?
The barman makes a tsk’ sound and gives the figure a stare, the kind of which gruff barmen reserve for the type of customer that could be considered a time waster. S.H.I.T simply stares back. Unnerved by his manliness being simply ignored the barman decides to answer the question.
“All of them buddy,” he eventually replies, although retaining a suitable amount of gruffness.
Not buddy!
“What?” Asks the barman. . . Gruffly.
Not buddy. . . S.H.I.T!
“That’s a bit harsh isn’t it?” Gruff, but with a small amount of joviality, depressed people can be heavy drinkers after all.
The man on the bicycle stops upon hearing this and turns a disgusted look at the barman.
“Don’t you think this poor wretched creature has heard that joke enough already?” He said accusingly.
The barman doesn’t take too kindly to this, pure gruffness replacing any amount of former joviality. “Now look here Armstrong! I might not have won seven tour de frances, I might not have even had my tour de frances stripped because it turned out I had more of other peoples blood in my system than count freaking Dracula! But I know funny! And that joke was funny!”
"And so was that comment about Dracula, God Damn It!"
Armstrong merely shakes his head, before pulling a syringe full of thick red fluid out of his pocket and injecting the contents into his leg and riding off with renewed purpose.
“Now what do you want, shit?” He said with as much kindness as his general gruffness would allow.
All of your drinks contain alchohol?
“For the last time, yes!” His patience was wearing thin and gruff people generally have a small amount, but he couldnt escape the feeling he was on to a winner here.
Then they will suffice!
The barman looks surprised, as surprised as a barman would look if a guy dressed in cardboard had just walked into his bar and tried to buy all of his drinks. “Maybe you should start smaller, this fine little number here” and here he gruffly indicates a bottle on the shelf, "will start you well on your way and will only set you back $10 a pop." He grins gruffly at the muffled laughter behind S.H.I.T.
Then that will suffice!
Unable to believe his luck the barman gruffly takes the bottle from the shelf, before turning and facing the Machine with a gruff expression.
"How will you be paying for that then?" You can probably guess the manor in which he asked this question.
By not destroying you and all of your customers!
This comment silences the bar.
"Okay pal, I can see your a special type of loser, we have a section for people like you," and here he gruffly indicates the corner occupied by Paradyse and Deamonic.
S.H.I.T looks a the dejected pair, both staring lustfully at the screen showcasing the career of Johnny Scumm.
Affirmative! Perhaps S.H.I.T belongs in that corner!
"NO!" Came the voice of Armstrong as we catch up with the present moment. Veering wildly off course, the cycling veteran rides straight through the Bikers playing pool, all of which nod their heads in respect to a fellow bike enthusiast and skids to a halt next to the stool with S.H.I.T on it.
"If I was really classy, I'd make a comment about there being a stool and a shit next to me," he said. "Instead I'll just stick with disgustingly blunt! If you go and sit in that corner with those guys, you are living up to your acronym!"
Acronym?
"If you choose to drink away your problems instead of facing them like a manbot then you dont deserve to call yourself S.H.I.T!"
"Huh?" Grunted the barman, confused and gruffly.
Lance Armstrong ignores the man, instead pulling out another syringe and injecting the thick, red contents into his arm, he raises said arm and gives the Machine a hefty slap across the faceguard. With his hand of course. This raises a chorus of surprised noises you generally hear from a group of assembled people. Jay Leno's chin wobbles in shock.
S.H.I.T is under attack! Destroy! Destroy!
"Thats the Machine I became a fan of! Thats the guy that beat Austin Reynolds in its debut! Thats the guy who with the other Apostles unleashed a reign of terror upon WZCW!"
"Your a fan of the bad guy?" Came the gruffly asked question.
S.H.I.T is not a "bad guy."
"I AM LANCE ARMSTRONG! I AM THE MOST EVIL CYCLIST TO HAVE EVER LIVED!" He erupted, causing a murmering among the crowd.
"Barbosa is your problem? He bought you a war the likes of which you have never experienced before? He was willing to go farther than anyone else before him to destroy you? How dare you back down? When Lance Armstrong came against a competitor who would dope as heavily as him, do you know what Lance Armstrong did?"
What did Lance Armstrong do?
"What did Lance Armstrong do?"
"Lance Armstrong doped harder than all those motherfuckers!" He slaps S.H.I.T on the chest armour. "Barbosa will tear the arena apart to tear you apart, Barbosa will tear anything apart to tear you apart. You've got to go farther than him, show him that you will sink to his level and then sink another level below that!"
"He cost you matches? Cost him matches! Wrap a barb wire baseball bat around his face!"
"THATS how you win seven tour de frances!"
But you had those titles taken away!
"Pfft yeah! But that doesnt matter, I know I was the best, so does everyone else, I was the best at cycling and I was the best at cheating, everyone else tried and none of them could match me! And I did it all with one bollock!" Lance is now pointing triumphantly at the ceiling with one hand, and his crotch with the other.
The faces surrounding Lance stare in awe at this peak of Humanity, even S.H.I.T could be considered to be impressed.
"Thats what you've got to do!"
Affirmative! Barbosa wants violence, he shall recieve violence! Starting at Ascension 56, S.H.I.T will finally come out of limbo and cost Barbosa against Bowen, then it will wrap a barb wire baseball bat around his head! After that it will be Barbosa wondering how far S.H.I.T will go to end this war, which could be culminating at Unscripted! S.H.I.T will give Barbosa all the violence he can handle at that event, S.H.I.T sees Lance's expression, correction! More than he can handle. In a Texas Deathmatch, in a Barbed Wire Match or in an Exploding C4 Match, it does not matter how ridiculous the stipulation, it will destroy Barbosa and continue its quest to the top of WZCW. . . and it will do it all with one bollock! S.H.I.T is now pointing triumphantly at the ceiling with one claw, and what can only be called its 'crotch area' with the other.
Lance shoots the Machine an approving look and gets a syringe of the thick red fluid out of his pocket.
"Here," he says, proffering the blood to S.H.I.T. "A boost."
Negative! Said S.H.I.T, gently pushing the syringe away. After Ascension and Unscripted it is Barbosa who will require the extra blood! Now, S.H.I.T must leave!
"You'll never make it to Ascension in time!
"You'll need transport!"
S.H.I.T stops and considers this.
"And you'll need to wrap up warm, its freezing out there!"
S.H.I.T turns towards the pool table, apparently scanning the bikers one by one, looking for a similar height and build, but unable to find anyone who has clothes that would fit over its sophisticated armour S.H.I.T heads towards the doors again, kicking them off their hinges. It turns to face the crowded bar, an expression radiating murderous rage.
S.H.I.T will proceed at an accelerated rate! It then exits, moving at a clumsy run.
Lance Armstrong watches it leave, then turns to face Paradyse and Daemonic sat in the corner, having forgotten about Johnny Scumm and now staring at the rapidly shrinking silhouette of the Machine.
"You two could learn a lot from that guy."
Both men have the decency to look ashamed.
ASCENSION 56!
ÐаÑбоÑа
doesn't know REAL wrestling...
*The cavernous recesses of AswaldaK-Mart thrum with countless Christmas shoppers bustling up and down the aisles, desperately searching for stocking and stomach filling bargains of all shapes and sizes.
One such patron, the blonde and botoxed soccer mom type, struggles with which WZCW character set to buy for her son - the limited edition Ty Burna/Барбоса Hell in a Cell Action Figure set of the Kings of Hate Tag Team set.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Hmmm, Darren Bull and Joe West. They sound like an heroic pairing that my Brandon would like. Certainly better than a name that sounds like setting something on fire or complete gibberish.
What is that anyway? Fap six o ca? Sounds communist.
I am not all that happy with them glorifying "hate" but it is certainly far better than the use of that other "H" word.
*Having made her decision, Mrs Soccer Mom goes to deposit the Kings of Hate set in her trolley only to accidentally roll into the middle of the aisle right into the path of another on-coming shopping trolley.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Oh my I am so sorry.
*No reply. Not even a grunt. The propeller of the other shopping trolley is clearly focused on his mental shopping list. But for Mrs Soccer Mom, such rudeness cannot be tolerated. The fact that this individual has what is clearly an ice pack strapped to the top of his head in no way detours her.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Excuse me, I said I am sorry for what was clearly an accident. Acknowledging that would be only courteous.
*Still holding the Hell in a Cell set she has chosen not to purchase, she places a hand on the man's right shoulder. Big mistake. The almost full body shudder that this physical contact elicits stops the rude man dead in his tracks. He turns his head slightly to stare at the hand that is quickly removed from his shoulder, revealing first a blackened right eye with several stitches above it and then the full profile of the former WZCW Champion, Barbosa.
His gaze follows the retracting hand back to its source, initiating a few seconds of silent tension with Mrs Soccer Mom exuding far less bluster now that she has come face to face with the battle-scarred, rude man.
Rather out of character, it is Barbosa that breaks the tension.*
Barbosa: I have no time for such inane pleasantries and the vagueries of social conventions. I've got SHIT to deal with.
*With that, Barbosa stomps off behind his trolley, clearly looking for something specific amongst the horde of goods that Aswalda-Mart has to offer. Emboldened by the seeming retreat of the rude man, Mrs Soccer Mom hfmmps indignantly. However, her indignation is too loud for despite being almost to the far end of the aisle, the stomping Barbosa stops dead once again, having clearly heard. However, instead of raising any ire, the bruised and battered former WZCW champion gives Mrs Soccer Mom some shopping advice.*
Barbosa: Get your child the figures in your hand, not those in your trolley.
*With that, Barbosa disappears around the corner, leaving Mrs Soccer Mom to look down at the action figure set in her hand. She looks closely at its components, focusing more on the character with the gibberish name, leading her to do a double take after the man she had crashed into.
Half an hour of going up and down aisles, in a seemingly fruitless search for what he is looking for but luckily avoiding any further direct interaction with the public, Barbosa finally finds the section he is looking for - the gun counter.
The sales assistant, who until now has had his back to the approaching customer, begins to turn around at the sound of Barbosa's trolley hitting the counter.
Almost immediately, he starts into his pre-rehearsed seller's spiel regarding the wares present in his hunting section; however, upon laying eyes on Barbosa, he stops, clearly perplexed by the sight of a grown man with a black eye, stitches above said eye and a leaking ice pack strapped to his head.*
Assistant: Err good afternoon, sir.
Barbosa: A tomahawk chop.
Assistant: A what sir? I'm sorry, I do not understand.
Barbosa: You were startled by my appearance and I was jumping forward to the answer of your inevitable question of how I ended up like this - an overhand chop from a man dressed in a robot suit made out of cardboard did this. Well, that and the myriad weapons it decided to employs. Is there some sort of problem with that?
Assistant: Just that you are leaking all over the floor.
*Barbosa looks down and back to see the trail of water spots that he has left behind.*
Assistant: Anyway I've seen a lot worse here at AswaldaK-Mart There are websites dedicated to some of our more conspicuous customers.
Barbosa: Are you trying to say that you want a photograph?
*Barbosa's tone lets the sales assistant know that even if he wanted one, he would not be getting it.*
Assistant: Of course not, sir. What can I do for you today? We have a special on some of our more popular ammunition and
Barbosa: I need some blast proof clothing.
Assistant: Hmmm well, some of our higher end hunting jackets are laced with Kevlar and contain some ceramic plates, which should provide you with some protection.
Barbosa: Oh, is that in case some of those yearling deer you are hunting turn on you? Or a wolf cub manages to get your gun?
*Clearly understanding the sarcastic criticism from the foreigner, the sales assistant largely ignores it.*
Assistant: I would imagine it is more to do with protecting the hunter from friendly fire.
Barbosa: Oh yeah, I forgot that you Americans have trouble telling the difference between a man and a bison
*Again ignoring the insults, the assistant heads off to get the asked for items, leaving Barbosa to look around in disgust at over-capitalisation at work.*
Barbosa: Why use a gun or a crossbow when you can get the tactile pleasure of beating someone with your fists or a blunt, inanimate object?
*The assistant returns with a heavy duty hunting jacket that looks like it would survive a nuclear war.*
Assistant: Will there be anything else, sir?
Barbosa: I assume that this Kevlar jacket will also protect against barbed wire?
Assistant: Yes, it will. It is somewhat stab proof too.
Barbosa: I see. For when the bear pulls a knife. Then I will also require a similarly laced pair of gloves and a set of wire cutters.
Assistant: Of course, sir.
*The assistant walks off again, only for Barbosa to also rush off in the direction of the food section. By the time, the assistant returns with a pair of gloves that look like they could be used to handle active thermite without any ill-affects and a pair of wire cutters that could probably cut off a finger or two, a slightly out of breath Barbosa is back standing at the counter. However, the leaking ice pack has been replaced by a bag of frozen peas. The assistant decides not to comment.*
Assistant: Will there be anything else?
Barbosa: Hmmm what exactly does one need for a Texas deathmatch? Barbeque sauce? A ten gallon hat? Or just whatever happens to be lying around?
Assistant: I really do not know what you are talking about, sir. But we do have both of those things in stock.
Barbosa: What things? The hat and sauce? What use would they be in a Texas deathmatch?
*The assistant again does not answer as Barbosa continues to look around for something potentially useful.*
Barbosa: Ah, that. I want that right there.
*Barbosa points towards the counter top between him and the assistant.*
Assistant: You want one of these?
*The assistant lifts the nearest item to where he thinks his customer is pointing.*
Barbosa: No, not a stapler; although come to think of it a heavy duty stapler might be useful against cardboard no, I will stick with my original choice. The white thing beside it.
Assistant: This box-cutter?
Barbosa: Yes! That would be perfect.
Assistant: We have a wide range of such cutting tools in our DIY and Arts and Crafts departments. They are both on your way to the checkout from here.
Barbosa: Good.
*With that, Barbosa gathers up his chosen coat, gloves and cutters and heads off in that direction.*
Assistant: Oh, and sir. The pharmacy is also on your way. Perhaps you can get some painkillers for your headache?
*Barbosa looks back over his shoulder at the assistant.*
Barbosa: Drugs are bad they numb the senses and I intend to be fully alert for the brutal beating I am about to deliver.
__________________________________________________
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
*A dark empty room is all of a sudden illuminated by the light coming through an open door. It is the poker room.
Not only has it not been seen in a while, from the thick layer of dust gathering on top of the poker table, it clearly has not been occupied at all. The overturned chairs and drag marks along the ground also suggest that this place was evacuated in a hurry and not willingly.
Where there had once been such chaos, there was now a quiet emptiness - indicative of the single-mindedness the person standing in the doorway now felt. But this was not the manic, catatonic, depressed or smoking Barbosa who had graced this room with his presence in the past. It was just Barbosa.
The Barbosa who in a few short moments was to enter a world of pain - whether it be C4, barbed wire or Texas, it would be hell.
However, he welcomed it.
Months of clouded directionlessness in the wake of Ty's departure from this mortal coil had been swept away by exquisite clarity the moment that the Scale Humanoid Industrial Technology had grabbed him from behind at Apocalypse despite having fallen prey to a powerbomb over the top rope onto the ring steps.
Since then, everything have been about testing the indestructible and those few fleeting moments pulverising SHIT had been exhilarating. Even the beating that he had suffered at the most recent Ascension had done nothing to dull the fire within him. If anything, it had increased it. It had proven that this fight was not just a one sided crusade of decimation. The robot, android or whatever it was felt some need to retaliate.
That alone ensured that their showdown was anything but Unscripted. It was as clear as day that something akin to a war crime was going to occur. It might even prove that the Mayans were correct and that the WZCW calendar was slightly too early - the Apocalypse was coming now.
But what then? It sounds somewhat contradictory to expect anything to happen "after the Apocalypse" but perhaps after this SHITstorm, Barbosa would have to return to this room once more to dredge up past ailments and personalities to satisfy a returned craving for direction
However, he could not let such potential distractions affect him now and if he was honest, the anticipated joy of the impending destruction, regardless of the form or direction it takes or its results, had overriden any and all of those worries.
Furthermore, if the past was anything to go by, the attainment of joyful destruction would either kickstart a new development in his persona or reboot his position within WZCW.
While it might not be within the limits of his control, the approaching cataclysm was certainly not a dull proposition.
It was time.
Without having set foot within the room, Barbosa pulls the poker room door closed, leaving the room dark and empty once more.*
__________________________________________________
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
*At the slam of the door, Barbosa opens his eyes. He is in 'his' locker room.
No one had replaced Black Dragon as the only competitor brave enough to share such a space with the Bedlamite so Barbosa is alone. However, despite that solitude, from beyond the walls, the hustle and bustle of an on-going PPV can be heard.
Given that Barbosa is fully attired and has enough of a sweat on to suggestion that he has completed whatever warm up routine he partakes in, it would appear that he is mere moments from heading to the ring.
In the past, Barbosa had been more fun-loving. Sometimes even a clown. However, now Barbosa appears to be all business. He has a look of deep focus on his face, clearly prepared for the brutality that awaits him in the ring.
A few more deep breaths and the slamming of balled up fist onto the bench upon which he is seated and it appears that Barbosa is ready to go. He rises to his feet and heads towards the locker room door.
However, just before he steps out, Barbosa turns back towards his bench.*
Barbosa: How could I almost forget these?
*With that, Barbosa dons his hunting jacket and gloves, deposits his wire and box-cutters in his pockets and with a final flourish, parks a large several gallon hat on his head to complete the ensemble.*
Barbosa: There we are. Prepared for every eventuality!
*Barbosa then strides out of the locker room looking like the combination of Wyatt Earp and a modern day Elmer Fudd, complete with brain injury. Through the hustle and bustle of crowd and backstage noise, he can be heard repeating the mantra that has not been far from his lips in past months *
Barbosa: "Break SHIT!
Smash SHIT!
DESTROY SHIT!"
One such patron, the blonde and botoxed soccer mom type, struggles with which WZCW character set to buy for her son - the limited edition Ty Burna/Барбоса Hell in a Cell Action Figure set of the Kings of Hate Tag Team set.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Hmmm, Darren Bull and Joe West. They sound like an heroic pairing that my Brandon would like. Certainly better than a name that sounds like setting something on fire or complete gibberish.
What is that anyway? Fap six o ca? Sounds communist.
I am not all that happy with them glorifying "hate" but it is certainly far better than the use of that other "H" word.
*Having made her decision, Mrs Soccer Mom goes to deposit the Kings of Hate set in her trolley only to accidentally roll into the middle of the aisle right into the path of another on-coming shopping trolley.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Oh my I am so sorry.
*No reply. Not even a grunt. The propeller of the other shopping trolley is clearly focused on his mental shopping list. But for Mrs Soccer Mom, such rudeness cannot be tolerated. The fact that this individual has what is clearly an ice pack strapped to the top of his head in no way detours her.*
Mrs Soccer Mom: Excuse me, I said I am sorry for what was clearly an accident. Acknowledging that would be only courteous.
*Still holding the Hell in a Cell set she has chosen not to purchase, she places a hand on the man's right shoulder. Big mistake. The almost full body shudder that this physical contact elicits stops the rude man dead in his tracks. He turns his head slightly to stare at the hand that is quickly removed from his shoulder, revealing first a blackened right eye with several stitches above it and then the full profile of the former WZCW Champion, Barbosa.
His gaze follows the retracting hand back to its source, initiating a few seconds of silent tension with Mrs Soccer Mom exuding far less bluster now that she has come face to face with the battle-scarred, rude man.
Rather out of character, it is Barbosa that breaks the tension.*
Barbosa: I have no time for such inane pleasantries and the vagueries of social conventions. I've got SHIT to deal with.
*With that, Barbosa stomps off behind his trolley, clearly looking for something specific amongst the horde of goods that Aswalda-Mart has to offer. Emboldened by the seeming retreat of the rude man, Mrs Soccer Mom hfmmps indignantly. However, her indignation is too loud for despite being almost to the far end of the aisle, the stomping Barbosa stops dead once again, having clearly heard. However, instead of raising any ire, the bruised and battered former WZCW champion gives Mrs Soccer Mom some shopping advice.*
Barbosa: Get your child the figures in your hand, not those in your trolley.
*With that, Barbosa disappears around the corner, leaving Mrs Soccer Mom to look down at the action figure set in her hand. She looks closely at its components, focusing more on the character with the gibberish name, leading her to do a double take after the man she had crashed into.
Half an hour of going up and down aisles, in a seemingly fruitless search for what he is looking for but luckily avoiding any further direct interaction with the public, Barbosa finally finds the section he is looking for - the gun counter.
The sales assistant, who until now has had his back to the approaching customer, begins to turn around at the sound of Barbosa's trolley hitting the counter.
Almost immediately, he starts into his pre-rehearsed seller's spiel regarding the wares present in his hunting section; however, upon laying eyes on Barbosa, he stops, clearly perplexed by the sight of a grown man with a black eye, stitches above said eye and a leaking ice pack strapped to his head.*
Assistant: Err good afternoon, sir.
Barbosa: A tomahawk chop.
Assistant: A what sir? I'm sorry, I do not understand.
Barbosa: You were startled by my appearance and I was jumping forward to the answer of your inevitable question of how I ended up like this - an overhand chop from a man dressed in a robot suit made out of cardboard did this. Well, that and the myriad weapons it decided to employs. Is there some sort of problem with that?
Assistant: Just that you are leaking all over the floor.
*Barbosa looks down and back to see the trail of water spots that he has left behind.*
Assistant: Anyway I've seen a lot worse here at AswaldaK-Mart There are websites dedicated to some of our more conspicuous customers.
Barbosa: Are you trying to say that you want a photograph?
*Barbosa's tone lets the sales assistant know that even if he wanted one, he would not be getting it.*
Assistant: Of course not, sir. What can I do for you today? We have a special on some of our more popular ammunition and
Barbosa: I need some blast proof clothing.
Assistant: Hmmm well, some of our higher end hunting jackets are laced with Kevlar and contain some ceramic plates, which should provide you with some protection.
Barbosa: Oh, is that in case some of those yearling deer you are hunting turn on you? Or a wolf cub manages to get your gun?
*Clearly understanding the sarcastic criticism from the foreigner, the sales assistant largely ignores it.*
Assistant: I would imagine it is more to do with protecting the hunter from friendly fire.
Barbosa: Oh yeah, I forgot that you Americans have trouble telling the difference between a man and a bison
*Again ignoring the insults, the assistant heads off to get the asked for items, leaving Barbosa to look around in disgust at over-capitalisation at work.*
Barbosa: Why use a gun or a crossbow when you can get the tactile pleasure of beating someone with your fists or a blunt, inanimate object?
*The assistant returns with a heavy duty hunting jacket that looks like it would survive a nuclear war.*
Assistant: Will there be anything else, sir?
Barbosa: I assume that this Kevlar jacket will also protect against barbed wire?
Assistant: Yes, it will. It is somewhat stab proof too.
Barbosa: I see. For when the bear pulls a knife. Then I will also require a similarly laced pair of gloves and a set of wire cutters.
Assistant: Of course, sir.
*The assistant walks off again, only for Barbosa to also rush off in the direction of the food section. By the time, the assistant returns with a pair of gloves that look like they could be used to handle active thermite without any ill-affects and a pair of wire cutters that could probably cut off a finger or two, a slightly out of breath Barbosa is back standing at the counter. However, the leaking ice pack has been replaced by a bag of frozen peas. The assistant decides not to comment.*
Assistant: Will there be anything else?
Barbosa: Hmmm what exactly does one need for a Texas deathmatch? Barbeque sauce? A ten gallon hat? Or just whatever happens to be lying around?
Assistant: I really do not know what you are talking about, sir. But we do have both of those things in stock.
Barbosa: What things? The hat and sauce? What use would they be in a Texas deathmatch?
*The assistant again does not answer as Barbosa continues to look around for something potentially useful.*
Barbosa: Ah, that. I want that right there.
*Barbosa points towards the counter top between him and the assistant.*
Assistant: You want one of these?
*The assistant lifts the nearest item to where he thinks his customer is pointing.*
Barbosa: No, not a stapler; although come to think of it a heavy duty stapler might be useful against cardboard no, I will stick with my original choice. The white thing beside it.
Assistant: This box-cutter?
Barbosa: Yes! That would be perfect.
Assistant: We have a wide range of such cutting tools in our DIY and Arts and Crafts departments. They are both on your way to the checkout from here.
Barbosa: Good.
*With that, Barbosa gathers up his chosen coat, gloves and cutters and heads off in that direction.*
Assistant: Oh, and sir. The pharmacy is also on your way. Perhaps you can get some painkillers for your headache?
*Barbosa looks back over his shoulder at the assistant.*
Barbosa: Drugs are bad they numb the senses and I intend to be fully alert for the brutal beating I am about to deliver.
__________________________________________________
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
*A dark empty room is all of a sudden illuminated by the light coming through an open door. It is the poker room.
Not only has it not been seen in a while, from the thick layer of dust gathering on top of the poker table, it clearly has not been occupied at all. The overturned chairs and drag marks along the ground also suggest that this place was evacuated in a hurry and not willingly.
Where there had once been such chaos, there was now a quiet emptiness - indicative of the single-mindedness the person standing in the doorway now felt. But this was not the manic, catatonic, depressed or smoking Barbosa who had graced this room with his presence in the past. It was just Barbosa.
The Barbosa who in a few short moments was to enter a world of pain - whether it be C4, barbed wire or Texas, it would be hell.
However, he welcomed it.
Months of clouded directionlessness in the wake of Ty's departure from this mortal coil had been swept away by exquisite clarity the moment that the Scale Humanoid Industrial Technology had grabbed him from behind at Apocalypse despite having fallen prey to a powerbomb over the top rope onto the ring steps.
Since then, everything have been about testing the indestructible and those few fleeting moments pulverising SHIT had been exhilarating. Even the beating that he had suffered at the most recent Ascension had done nothing to dull the fire within him. If anything, it had increased it. It had proven that this fight was not just a one sided crusade of decimation. The robot, android or whatever it was felt some need to retaliate.
That alone ensured that their showdown was anything but Unscripted. It was as clear as day that something akin to a war crime was going to occur. It might even prove that the Mayans were correct and that the WZCW calendar was slightly too early - the Apocalypse was coming now.
But what then? It sounds somewhat contradictory to expect anything to happen "after the Apocalypse" but perhaps after this SHITstorm, Barbosa would have to return to this room once more to dredge up past ailments and personalities to satisfy a returned craving for direction
However, he could not let such potential distractions affect him now and if he was honest, the anticipated joy of the impending destruction, regardless of the form or direction it takes or its results, had overriden any and all of those worries.
Furthermore, if the past was anything to go by, the attainment of joyful destruction would either kickstart a new development in his persona or reboot his position within WZCW.
While it might not be within the limits of his control, the approaching cataclysm was certainly not a dull proposition.
It was time.
Without having set foot within the room, Barbosa pulls the poker room door closed, leaving the room dark and empty once more.*
__________________________________________________
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
*At the slam of the door, Barbosa opens his eyes. He is in 'his' locker room.
No one had replaced Black Dragon as the only competitor brave enough to share such a space with the Bedlamite so Barbosa is alone. However, despite that solitude, from beyond the walls, the hustle and bustle of an on-going PPV can be heard.
Given that Barbosa is fully attired and has enough of a sweat on to suggestion that he has completed whatever warm up routine he partakes in, it would appear that he is mere moments from heading to the ring.
In the past, Barbosa had been more fun-loving. Sometimes even a clown. However, now Barbosa appears to be all business. He has a look of deep focus on his face, clearly prepared for the brutality that awaits him in the ring.
A few more deep breaths and the slamming of balled up fist onto the bench upon which he is seated and it appears that Barbosa is ready to go. He rises to his feet and heads towards the locker room door.
However, just before he steps out, Barbosa turns back towards his bench.*
Barbosa: How could I almost forget these?
*With that, Barbosa dons his hunting jacket and gloves, deposits his wire and box-cutters in his pockets and with a final flourish, parks a large several gallon hat on his head to complete the ensemble.*
Barbosa: There we are. Prepared for every eventuality!
*Barbosa then strides out of the locker room looking like the combination of Wyatt Earp and a modern day Elmer Fudd, complete with brain injury. Through the hustle and bustle of crowd and backstage noise, he can be heard repeating the mantra that has not been far from his lips in past months *
Barbosa: "Break SHIT!
Smash SHIT!
DESTROY SHIT!"
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