Post by Deamon Cohln on Jul 10, 2006 3:31:40 GMT -5
*Deamon walks into his hotel room. He has only one bag. He likes to travel light. He moves over to the bed and lays the bag down on it. He turns toward the TV. It’s already flickering with the hotel station which showcases all the PPV movies and the ability to buy outdated video games and play them with the flimsy controller laying beside the TV. He pulls out one of his headphones and sets his iriver down on the end table. He looks at the TV and remembers a song of his own.*
Deamon: Songs can mean some stuff Bard. Being Irish yourself you should know that. You guys have created some of the best drinking songs ever. I mean all you guys do is drink and fight. Which, in fact would put you guys in a good spot for this business. But I believe my lineage helps me a lot more Bard. German-Redneck. Yes, I’m a German-Redneck white boy, born and raised in the city of Detroit. Stranger things have happened though. I mean, BomberJake is still World Champion.
*Deamon takes the controller in his hand. He flips the channels and wonders what is on in the process. He flips past the movie channel, the kids channel, the adult entertainment channel. He sighs at the inevitable decline of any form of intelligence that humanity has gained. He sighs and switches off the TV. Instead, he pulls his iriver back out and puts on his headphones to drown out the world.*
Deamon: If music be the food of love, may it also be the call of war. That’s what I always say about a good song or a good lyric. It brings emotion and power to a beat. Yet a word cannot be interpreted on it’s own. My words mean nothing unless you give them the context of the situation now. I’m stuck in the mid-card cause the bosses are afraid of me at the top. I’m stuck facing some rock fool for a Title that truly means nothing to me. Yeah. That’s all the context you need to know about this battle. Bard may be Irish, but I’m German, battle is what we are born for, and this time, Das Mutterland will not fail. I will blitzkrieg your ass.
*Deamon flips through the songs on his mp3 player. Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, D-12, Bob Seger, Led Zepplin, Daft Punk, he finally reaches something he can listen too, Rammstein. Fitting. He lays down in the bed and closes his eyes to fully flow into the music. He continues to talk even while on his back*
Deamon: Midget. He actually called me a midget. Poor bastard. I guess he’ll have to learn that even if I am only 5’10”, I have defeated bigger men then he will ever. I beat my brother Jacola, who was 6’9”. I beat Lenny Kreyshawn, who was 6’11”. It’s not the size of the man, but the force his fist is driven through his opponent. Bard. You should know this. You are “small” to some guys. You should know that size don’t matter. You should know a lot, but I guess all that drinking has killed too many of your brain cells to even fathom what you are up against. AWS Champ. EWWF Champ. WLW Champ. Even a midget can get far in this business.
*Deamon focuses on the back of his eyelids before a loud noise wakes him up, causing his eyes to shoot open and piss him off a bit. He can hear a voice from the other end of the wall near the headboard of his bed.*
Voice: Who the hell are you talking to in there! It’s 2 AM! Shut up!
Deamon: I’ll do what I want whoever-the-fuck-you-are!
Voice: Don’t make me come over there you little shit!
Deamon: I dare you old man!
Voice: FINE!
*Deamon gets out of the bed and realizes what is going on. This guy is actually going to come over. Deamon walks to the door and opens it a bit so the man can just walk int. He enters the bathroom, shuts off the lights and waits. He here the door slam against the wall like it has been kicked in. Deamon grabs the nearest thing he could find, a coffee pot, and opens the bathroom door.*
The Man: Come here asshole!
*Deamon swings the coffee pot, smashing it over the man’s head. The pot shatters and the man drops to the floor bleeding. Deamon stands over him and realizes what he’s done. He cleans the blood off the guys forehead and drags him back into the other room. He runs all the stuff the street’s taught him. It’s all like clockwork. Deamon heads back into his room. He shuts the door behind him and stands in the little walkway from the door to the bed.*
Deamon: Wow. That’s just getting too easy. I mean, I hurt a guy, clean up my mess, it’s just like being back in Detroit. Nobody’s gonna get you if you can cover your tracks well enough. Just gotta know the way to do it. And I hope Bard realizes that I know how to do this in the ring too. I won’t kill him, of course not, I’ll just put him in such agonizing pain that he will wish he was dead. That’s the goddamn truth.
*Deamon walks over, puts his headphones back on and drifts off to sleep with his headphones blaring in his ears.*
--The Next Day--
*Deamon walks out of the hotel room to get the paper in front of the door. A EMT is hauling a man out of the room next to him. Deamon can’t help but overhear the conversation that the two EMT’s are having.*
EMT 1: So just a gash on the forehead and a concussion huh?
EMT 2: Yeah, he keeps saying “out of nowhere” and “Demon” or something. I don’t think he remembers what actually happened.
*Deamon grabs his paper and laughs to himself a little bit. He stands up and watches the stretcher be pulled out of the room and down the hall to the elevator and the exit.*
Deamon: You never should have gone and messed with a future champion. And that’s the goddamn truth.
*Deamon look at the paper a second and walks back out of the room. The scene ends on Deamon’s hotel room door shutting and the keycard lock changing to red.*
Deamon: Songs can mean some stuff Bard. Being Irish yourself you should know that. You guys have created some of the best drinking songs ever. I mean all you guys do is drink and fight. Which, in fact would put you guys in a good spot for this business. But I believe my lineage helps me a lot more Bard. German-Redneck. Yes, I’m a German-Redneck white boy, born and raised in the city of Detroit. Stranger things have happened though. I mean, BomberJake is still World Champion.
*Deamon takes the controller in his hand. He flips the channels and wonders what is on in the process. He flips past the movie channel, the kids channel, the adult entertainment channel. He sighs at the inevitable decline of any form of intelligence that humanity has gained. He sighs and switches off the TV. Instead, he pulls his iriver back out and puts on his headphones to drown out the world.*
Deamon: If music be the food of love, may it also be the call of war. That’s what I always say about a good song or a good lyric. It brings emotion and power to a beat. Yet a word cannot be interpreted on it’s own. My words mean nothing unless you give them the context of the situation now. I’m stuck in the mid-card cause the bosses are afraid of me at the top. I’m stuck facing some rock fool for a Title that truly means nothing to me. Yeah. That’s all the context you need to know about this battle. Bard may be Irish, but I’m German, battle is what we are born for, and this time, Das Mutterland will not fail. I will blitzkrieg your ass.
*Deamon flips through the songs on his mp3 player. Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, D-12, Bob Seger, Led Zepplin, Daft Punk, he finally reaches something he can listen too, Rammstein. Fitting. He lays down in the bed and closes his eyes to fully flow into the music. He continues to talk even while on his back*
Deamon: Midget. He actually called me a midget. Poor bastard. I guess he’ll have to learn that even if I am only 5’10”, I have defeated bigger men then he will ever. I beat my brother Jacola, who was 6’9”. I beat Lenny Kreyshawn, who was 6’11”. It’s not the size of the man, but the force his fist is driven through his opponent. Bard. You should know this. You are “small” to some guys. You should know that size don’t matter. You should know a lot, but I guess all that drinking has killed too many of your brain cells to even fathom what you are up against. AWS Champ. EWWF Champ. WLW Champ. Even a midget can get far in this business.
*Deamon focuses on the back of his eyelids before a loud noise wakes him up, causing his eyes to shoot open and piss him off a bit. He can hear a voice from the other end of the wall near the headboard of his bed.*
Voice: Who the hell are you talking to in there! It’s 2 AM! Shut up!
Deamon: I’ll do what I want whoever-the-fuck-you-are!
Voice: Don’t make me come over there you little shit!
Deamon: I dare you old man!
Voice: FINE!
*Deamon gets out of the bed and realizes what is going on. This guy is actually going to come over. Deamon walks to the door and opens it a bit so the man can just walk int. He enters the bathroom, shuts off the lights and waits. He here the door slam against the wall like it has been kicked in. Deamon grabs the nearest thing he could find, a coffee pot, and opens the bathroom door.*
The Man: Come here asshole!
*Deamon swings the coffee pot, smashing it over the man’s head. The pot shatters and the man drops to the floor bleeding. Deamon stands over him and realizes what he’s done. He cleans the blood off the guys forehead and drags him back into the other room. He runs all the stuff the street’s taught him. It’s all like clockwork. Deamon heads back into his room. He shuts the door behind him and stands in the little walkway from the door to the bed.*
Deamon: Wow. That’s just getting too easy. I mean, I hurt a guy, clean up my mess, it’s just like being back in Detroit. Nobody’s gonna get you if you can cover your tracks well enough. Just gotta know the way to do it. And I hope Bard realizes that I know how to do this in the ring too. I won’t kill him, of course not, I’ll just put him in such agonizing pain that he will wish he was dead. That’s the goddamn truth.
*Deamon walks over, puts his headphones back on and drifts off to sleep with his headphones blaring in his ears.*
--The Next Day--
*Deamon walks out of the hotel room to get the paper in front of the door. A EMT is hauling a man out of the room next to him. Deamon can’t help but overhear the conversation that the two EMT’s are having.*
EMT 1: So just a gash on the forehead and a concussion huh?
EMT 2: Yeah, he keeps saying “out of nowhere” and “Demon” or something. I don’t think he remembers what actually happened.
*Deamon grabs his paper and laughs to himself a little bit. He stands up and watches the stretcher be pulled out of the room and down the hall to the elevator and the exit.*
Deamon: You never should have gone and messed with a future champion. And that’s the goddamn truth.
*Deamon look at the paper a second and walks back out of the room. The scene ends on Deamon’s hotel room door shutting and the keycard lock changing to red.*