| No, Virginia, There Is No Santa Clause; [sd-9 Roleplay #2] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 15 2007, 07:35 PM (69 Views) | |
| Mike Polowy | Dec 15 2007, 07:35 PM Post #1 |
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2x Former sVo Champion
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It's Christmas time in Las Vegas, and though the concept of snow is a meteorological improbability in Sin City, the festive mood has already begun to spread like an infectious disease. Coin guzzling slot machines attired with garland and holly smatter the floors of high rolling casinos, and the cheap smell of artificial Christmas trees waft carelessly into the nostrils of passersby as they wander through hotel lobbies. Drunken Santa Clauses wander the streets, smelling of old scotch and Christmas cheer. Even the red light districts spread the holiday mood with wreaths hung from solid, non-descript doors, inviting their patrons to come inside, sip some egg nog, and slip singles into the g-strings of domestically abused college girls. With only twelve shopping days left before the biggest gift giving holiday of the year, last minute shoppers whiz through red lights and jam up intersections, their mini-vans and sedans packed full with irritable children and soccer moms hell-bent on getting this years big toy. Yet amidst all the chaos that comes with the pagan celebration of Christmas, a certain yuletide cheer has reached even the most frigid of cold hearts. He had tried to avoid it. Christmas was a horrible time of year for the sVo champion, a time for selfish children and crazed parents to indulge in their tiniest whims. An excuse for stupid people with no willpower and even less self-esteem to eat their weight in cookies and pastries, and justify it just because they are shaped like Frosty and the Baby Jesus. Yet even deep within the confines of his own personal safe haven, the yuletide merriment of Christmas can not thaw the unusually cold demeanor of Michael Polowy. Flames dance circles around the expansive fireplace on the far wall, but even the most careful of observers will find no chestnuts roasting on this particular open fire. The grumpiest of Scrooges stands stoically on the cold, hardwood floor of his penthouse apartment, high above the sparkling city below. The drab looking apartment is a shocking contrast from the colors and lights radiating throughout the city, it's bland earth tones making the living room boring in comparison. He stares with disdain at the city below him, the sparkling lights and holiday cheer twisting his face into a cynical sneer. He mumbles, under his breath. Polowy: All the Whos down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot, but the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did not... A chuckle escapes him, fogging the already frosting window glass into a hazy mirror of sorts. The face that stares back at him as his reflection comes into view is barely his own. It's twisted, a perverted image of a man he once understood. A decent, God fearing, gift unwrapping young man with wide eyes and a world before him. Now, no stockings hung from his fireplace with care. He didn't leave cookies for Santa Clause, or a carrot for the reindeer. He barely even called home to wish his family a Merry Christmas. After all, what was to be merry about? It was only a day. One day out of three hundred and sixty five, where family gathered around the table and got drunk enough to pretend they didn't secretly hate eachother. One day to be reminded that the other three hundred and sixty four would be more miserable than the last. Christmas was not a blessing, it was a bane on a Wal-Mart worshipping world. He turns sharply away from the window, refusing to look any deeper into his own soul than he has to. Since he'd quit drinking a few weeks ago, it had become increasingly difficult for him to enjoy his own company, and the less he had to be aware of himself the better. Christmas would come and go, New Years would arrive, and it would be time to break another resolution. What would he do this year? Quit smoking? Be nicer to little old ladies he didn't know? Doubtful. He'd watch on and laugh as fat women gave up chocolate, and then offer them cake. He'd sneer at a hypocritical world and count down the days till next Christmas, when he'd do the same thing all over again. Polowy: Oh, I'm a mean one... Mr. Banks. I really am a heel. I'm as cuddly as a cactus, I'm as charming as an eel, Mr. Baaaaanks. He chuckles to himself, thinking back to Howie Bank's misadventures at the Goodfella's Casino just a few short hours ago. The promo had troubled him, not because he was scared, but because in many ways, Howie Banks was right. He faces the camera, finally acknowledging it's presence in his room. Maybe he'd forgotten it was there in his moment of yuletide displeasure. Or maybe, just maybe, he'd just ceased to care. Polowy: You know, Howie Banks says he ought to remind me of myself. Unfortunately for him, when I look at Howie Banks, I don't compare him to my own long and illustrious career... when I look at 'Hollywood' Howie Banks, I compare him to this most disgusting and disgraceful Hallmark holiday. Christmas. A smile comes over his face, as he moves towards the leather couch facing the large plasma screen television on the opposite side of the room. He lurches backwards, dropping his tired body down onto the comfortable sofa. He takes his time, reaching forward and picking up the mug of hot chocolate from the table in front of him and taking a small sip. Polowy: Ow! Damn, that's hot. Now where was I? Oh, yes, Christmas. You see, Howie Banks likes to THINK that he's some kind of bastard child of my father, or something. I don't blame him, and all, since apparently his own father kept him in a closet and fed him cardboard or something like that until he was twelve years old, but it's just not a possibility. The super sperm of my father could never create something as disturbing as that ginger headed Mike Polowy wannabe. Yet he went on and on about how we're soooo alike. We're both cocky, we're both this, we're both that. Yada yada yada. Welcome to being a professional wrestler, Howie. Show me a wrestler without an ego and I'll show you a wrestler who never made it a week in this business. But when you try and tell me that we're alike because we both want to be the best, I have to laugh. You see, you were only HALF right. You do, indeed, want to be the best. And in a strange, sad sort of way, I respect that. You'll never be the best, you'll never be the champion, but you're trying, and I can sort of admire that. But where you're wrong, Howie, is in assuming that I want to be the best. You say it like it's something I aspire to become. But there's one problem with that, Mr. Banks... I'm already there. I can't aspire to become something I already am. I'm the sVo Champion, and that makes me the best. And you can talk all you want about Psyko Stevo knocking me off the mountain, and you can ride his coattails for as long as you want to look like a credible threat to my championship, Howie, but you're forgetting two things. Number one, I had Psyko Stevo dead to rights in that ring before Johnny All-Star got involved. I wouldn't say some cheap interference and a tainted victory exactly add up to 'knocking me off the mountain.' Number two, even if he had, that's Psyko Stevo. Aside from having the charisma of a fish on a rock, he's had a pretty admirable career. Hell, he's undefeated in main eventing for the last God knows how long, not just in the sVo either. You? You left Project: Violence, opened up your own federation, and could barely win a match. Don't compare yourself to Psyko Stevo, and don't DARE compare yourself to me. The only thing we have in common is that after Showdown, we'll both be feeling sorry for you. He blows lightly on his cocoa, trying to cool it off before taking another sip. He raises it to his lips, the steam rising into his face off the plain looking brown mug. Satisfied, he swallows down the thick chocolate treat and sets the mug back down onto it's coaster. Polowy: But as much as I can't logically accept your comparison of Howie Banks to Michael Polowy, I can quite easily back up my comparison of Howie Banks to the disgustingly chipper holiday of Christmas. Christmas has always been the most bittersweet holiday in my opinion. It's too bright. It's too optimistic. Its a bullshit holiday made for the media. It's not about religion, or family anymore. It's about commercialization and illusions. It's about traveling long distances to see people you hate. And most of all, it's about a bunch of selfish people getting gifts they don't deserve. And you, Howie Banks... you epitomize this to the fullest. Just like Christmas, Banks, you're too damn bright. You're too optimistic. The childhood beatings aside, you seem to think that your life is just destined to be something great. You look in the mirror and you see yourself as snow on Christmas Eve... the be all end all of human perfection. And just like Christmas, it's nothing but a bunch of media hyped glamorization and fantasy. Because I see the truth, Howie. I see below the fine layer of slime coating your shiny exterior. Just like I see through the wreaths, and the holly, and the overplayed radio tunes of Elvis bastardizing "Jingle Bells", to the disgusting travesty beneath. I see that beneath the surface, you're a selfish child getting in line to sit on my lap and beg me for a gift you don't deserve, like I'm some kind of ultra-handsome Santa Clause. You seem think that because Jimmy Moretti got a little bit buzzed off of too much egg nog and gave you a main event match against me, that somehow that makes you championship caliber at all, much less even remotely like me. But you'll never receive a title shot from me, Banks, because like a selfish child begging the man in red for a brand new football, I nod and I smile and I move on to the next little brat, and probably never see you again. You have your chance this week to square off with me, and if Jimmy Moretti, myself, or anyone else ever thought you had a chance in hell of taking the Championship, it would be on the line this week. But it's not, is it Howie? No. In fact, Vegas odd's say that the only reason you got a match against me at all this week is so you could be humiliated on live television during the most festive time of the year, in front of your newborn daughter. I think it's her I feel the most sorry for, Howie. Your daughter is some day going to grow up, and she's going to mature. She's going to stop believing in you in the same way she'll stop believing in Santa Clause. She's going to see you both for the same sad half truths that you're made up of. And I hate to see the look in her sad, puppy dog eyes when she realizes that the fat man in the red suit is the same as her father... a big, fat, fraud. A vicious look comes over his face, a sharp sneer with a twist. He finishes off the last of his hot cocoa, possibly the first person in the history of the world to drink the chocolaty, creamy treat with a look of anger on his face. As the last drop leaves the mug, the sneer upon his face suddenly turns upwards, revealing a fierce grin across his otherwise stern countenance. Inspiration has struck. Polowy: Then he got an idea. An awful idea. The Grinch had a wonderful, awful idea. He stands back up from the couch, moving silently back towards the window. He no longer faces the camera, but instead stares out at the traffic below him as he continues. Polowy: Howie, I'd give you a chance to walk away at Showdown tomorrow night, but I know you wouldn't take it. Like a wee toddler wrapped up in his cozy, warm bed on Christmas Eve, I know visions of sugarplums and title shots have been dancing through your head all week, and you're not going to give that up over a silly little thing like reality. So really, trying to give you that is going to be a waste of effort on my part. But a stroke of genius has come over me, Mr. Banks, along with just the littlest bit of holiday spirit. In honor of the fake, Hallmark holiday coming up in just a few weeks, I'm going give you a gift at Showdown this week. It's not going to be a pie in a box, or a steel chair in the face. No, Howie Banks, I know exactly what I'm getting you for Christmas, and if I do say so myself you're really going to appreciate it. So I'll see you at Showdown, Howie. And until then? Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight. He laughs, a long loud chuckle that reverberates throughout the room. Tapping a finger on the glass window in front of him, he realizes that for the first time in many, many years, the holiday was looking like it might not be so bad. Maybe he would have a Merry Christmas after all. |
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-The First Sanctioned Violence Organization World Champion -Winner of the Victory Cup | |
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6:55 PM Jul 11