Post by Deleted on May 18, 2016 1:33:54 GMT -5
Late nights were Vegas' specialty as of late. The Bronx Champion had put in his time in the gym in Chicago, prepping for his big match at Xtreme All Access: Superbrawl X. The biggest event of the year loomed ahead of them, and Vegas earned his right to close out Ignition's show for the year. Xtreme All Access has been Vegas' playground up until this point, and he has no reason not to be confident. However, it seems he's curbed his enthusiasm and is sitting in his locker room, the clock on the wall reading 11:37pm. He sat in front of it with his back to it, his bare chest chiseled in the light. The Bronx Championship wasn't very far away from him, definitely within arms reach. Where it has been since Ignition reopened as a brand. The thought brought a grin to Vegas' face.
ARIN VEGAS: "Boy, Hawthorne, you sure like to hear yourself talk. I just imagine you standing in front of a mirror for an hour before your promo, making sure there is enough hair gel in your 'do to keep those spikes at maximum Sonic the Hedgehog level. I mean, it's either a boatload of gel or pure frustration holding up those little spikes, and if you admit that I'm frustrating you, believe me, I've already won."
The Bronx Champion grabbed a remote and flipped on the television. On it was a replay of Carson Hawthorne's failed attempt to take the title from Vegas, expertly paused at the part where Vegas put Hawthorne on the Injured Reserved list. The look on Hawthorne's face is priceless, a mixture of pure agony and the bleak realization that Vegas may have just sidelined him permanently. Apparently, by the grin on Paused Vegas' face, he thought the same thing but to a different conclusion.
ARIN VEGAS: "You think my reign here is impressive, Carson? You think I've 'carved my niche' here? Why, just because I've spent the last FIVE MONTHS destroying every upstart little punk who thought he deserved to be where I am? I'm merely comfortable because I come out every week and whip another wanna-be into a thin red paste, and I'M the comfortable one? And where are you, Hawthorne? Still where you are. What does that tell you, big man? That all that crap that you're talking? It's just talk."
His smirk oozes arrogance, because he thought that Hawthorne's biggest peeve was being called out on his mouth. The Prize Fighter had obviously backed up his words with his fists, but to Vegas, that didn't matter. What mattered was their record against each other, and in that, Vegas had come out on top. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back a loose strand that kept falling into his face.
ARIN VEGAS: "It's just talk. See, for a guy your size, a guy who obliterated his opponents at X-Fest, you certainly do jaw a lot. 'Oh, you're a brown-noser', 'Oh, you worship Wescott'. Sounds to me like you're jealous, big papa. Did Daddy not hug you enough as kid? Instead, you have to transfer your feelings to the closest thing you have to a stern father figure in your life, your GM? 'Aww, he doesn't wuv me... Now I'm gonna Hulk-smash everything in my testosterone rage!' Get over yourself, chump. In this brand, Arin Vegas is the best there is. Layton Wescott, he knows that. He sees that I am every bit the star that this place needs to be the best it can be, and we work together to our mutual benefit. Am I ashamed to say that I think Mr. Wescott is the best guy for his job? Absolutely not. Am I giving him HJs under his desk while Sayid recreates The Odd Couple scenes in some abstract one-man-play setting? Hell no. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Vegas leans closer to the camera, and his beard is slightly unkempt, like it's fallen by the wayside in his training. Obviously, he knows what a threat Hawthorne is, because his usually impeccable appearance isn't quite as spotless as usual. He brushes his hair back with both hands this time, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth as he starts to get angry.
ARIN VEGAS: "Not to mention, this is your BOSS you're accusing of nepotism, you neanderthal. Do you realize what that means? That any chance you had of him doing you a favor, it's out the window. I mean, look where he put you now. You had a chance at me and you failed, and Wescott knows that in every scenario you can run, that's the outcome that happens. If you ran the simulation a million times, you'd have a better chance of a monkey writing Hamlet before Carson Hawthorne pulls this win out of his ass. Because when it comes to professional wrestling, you're boorish. You've got all the raw power and aggression to go anywhere you want in this company. In some alternate timeline, I could have refined you, taught you how to be the best you that you can be. Instead, you chose to take the path of greatest resistance, one that runs you right into me like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. You chose to mark me as an enemy from the minute you stepped into this company, and look where that has gotten you. Beneath me."
He chuckles and shakes his head against, this time rifling through his duffel bag at his feet. He pulls out a 'Prize Fighter' muscle shirt and tosses it off to the side, instead pulling out a 'Bet It All on Vegas' T-Shirt. He sets it down next to himself and looks back to the camera.
ARIN VEGAS: "And I wish I was surprised to say that I knew you'd behave like this too. I'm sure you're mad that I stole that win over Justin Locke from you. Or maybe you're pissed that you couldn't pin me last week, instead you had to rely on that half-wit you teamed up with. You see, unlike you, I don't care what other people think of me. I didn't need to stay in that match, because in the end, it had zero impact on my career. It was an ego-stroke for you and Christian and Locke. For me, it was charity. And since I don't give a damn what Justin Locke has to say, I let him take one for the team and go down. And see, I think that's the difference between you and I, Carson. You're so concerned with this faux moral high ground you're standing on, but you don't get that it's why you won't beat me. See, I know I'm the best. Every fan who turns on that TV every Thursday night knows that, whether it's some hillbilly from Kentucky or some hot MILF from Orange County. They know that Arin Vegas is the best there is. Not just because he is so talented, but because he knows what it takes to win. And when some chump upstart wants to take what's his, but can't, they immediately say he's some unscrupulous kiss-ass. That's mudslinging, Carson. And you're accusing me of being low..."
He shakes his head and picks up the Bronx Championship, holding it in front of the camera. It's reflection played a trick on the lens of the camera, and the light refracted off in a rainbow pattern. Vegas moves the belt to avoid the light trick.
ARIN VEGAS: "So this is what you want, Carson? You want to walk out with this strapped around that cheeseburger holster you carry around on your torso? Because you know exactly what you have to get through to make that happen. You've seen just how 'low I can stoop' to hold this belt, and you know firsthand that I don't have the same moral qualms about ending your worthless career in that ring for this very piece of leather and gold. You, Syndergaard, Gregorio Montoya, Justin Locke, North Starr, Murphy Lane, Dante West... I don't give a crap who is on the other side of that ring when this belt is on the line. Whomever it is, they're just a body to be broken so that at the end of the night, 'Arin Vegas' is the only name printed on that faceplate. Because I don't give a damn how promising your matches have been thus far, against me, you're batting low. Exceptionally low. So unless you've come up with some genius plan to make this different than last time, I'm going to my bookie tonight. And you can bet your Subway-diet needing ass that when I put my money down, I'm going to..."
He smirks into the camera, holding the belt in view again. It's shining and sparkly and everything a belt should be. Vegas has a look in his eyes that is close to mania as he looks between the belt and the camera. His voice drops low and he leans in.
ARIN VEGAS: "Bet on me."
With that, the Champ stands up and clips the belt around his waist, where it belongs. The camera is focused directly on his abdomen, and the belt itself is the last thing the camera sees before it fades to black. An advertisement for Superbrawl X plays just after the promo is over, then black.
ARIN VEGAS: "Boy, Hawthorne, you sure like to hear yourself talk. I just imagine you standing in front of a mirror for an hour before your promo, making sure there is enough hair gel in your 'do to keep those spikes at maximum Sonic the Hedgehog level. I mean, it's either a boatload of gel or pure frustration holding up those little spikes, and if you admit that I'm frustrating you, believe me, I've already won."
The Bronx Champion grabbed a remote and flipped on the television. On it was a replay of Carson Hawthorne's failed attempt to take the title from Vegas, expertly paused at the part where Vegas put Hawthorne on the Injured Reserved list. The look on Hawthorne's face is priceless, a mixture of pure agony and the bleak realization that Vegas may have just sidelined him permanently. Apparently, by the grin on Paused Vegas' face, he thought the same thing but to a different conclusion.
ARIN VEGAS: "You think my reign here is impressive, Carson? You think I've 'carved my niche' here? Why, just because I've spent the last FIVE MONTHS destroying every upstart little punk who thought he deserved to be where I am? I'm merely comfortable because I come out every week and whip another wanna-be into a thin red paste, and I'M the comfortable one? And where are you, Hawthorne? Still where you are. What does that tell you, big man? That all that crap that you're talking? It's just talk."
His smirk oozes arrogance, because he thought that Hawthorne's biggest peeve was being called out on his mouth. The Prize Fighter had obviously backed up his words with his fists, but to Vegas, that didn't matter. What mattered was their record against each other, and in that, Vegas had come out on top. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back a loose strand that kept falling into his face.
ARIN VEGAS: "It's just talk. See, for a guy your size, a guy who obliterated his opponents at X-Fest, you certainly do jaw a lot. 'Oh, you're a brown-noser', 'Oh, you worship Wescott'. Sounds to me like you're jealous, big papa. Did Daddy not hug you enough as kid? Instead, you have to transfer your feelings to the closest thing you have to a stern father figure in your life, your GM? 'Aww, he doesn't wuv me... Now I'm gonna Hulk-smash everything in my testosterone rage!' Get over yourself, chump. In this brand, Arin Vegas is the best there is. Layton Wescott, he knows that. He sees that I am every bit the star that this place needs to be the best it can be, and we work together to our mutual benefit. Am I ashamed to say that I think Mr. Wescott is the best guy for his job? Absolutely not. Am I giving him HJs under his desk while Sayid recreates The Odd Couple scenes in some abstract one-man-play setting? Hell no. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Vegas leans closer to the camera, and his beard is slightly unkempt, like it's fallen by the wayside in his training. Obviously, he knows what a threat Hawthorne is, because his usually impeccable appearance isn't quite as spotless as usual. He brushes his hair back with both hands this time, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth as he starts to get angry.
ARIN VEGAS: "Not to mention, this is your BOSS you're accusing of nepotism, you neanderthal. Do you realize what that means? That any chance you had of him doing you a favor, it's out the window. I mean, look where he put you now. You had a chance at me and you failed, and Wescott knows that in every scenario you can run, that's the outcome that happens. If you ran the simulation a million times, you'd have a better chance of a monkey writing Hamlet before Carson Hawthorne pulls this win out of his ass. Because when it comes to professional wrestling, you're boorish. You've got all the raw power and aggression to go anywhere you want in this company. In some alternate timeline, I could have refined you, taught you how to be the best you that you can be. Instead, you chose to take the path of greatest resistance, one that runs you right into me like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. You chose to mark me as an enemy from the minute you stepped into this company, and look where that has gotten you. Beneath me."
He chuckles and shakes his head against, this time rifling through his duffel bag at his feet. He pulls out a 'Prize Fighter' muscle shirt and tosses it off to the side, instead pulling out a 'Bet It All on Vegas' T-Shirt. He sets it down next to himself and looks back to the camera.
ARIN VEGAS: "And I wish I was surprised to say that I knew you'd behave like this too. I'm sure you're mad that I stole that win over Justin Locke from you. Or maybe you're pissed that you couldn't pin me last week, instead you had to rely on that half-wit you teamed up with. You see, unlike you, I don't care what other people think of me. I didn't need to stay in that match, because in the end, it had zero impact on my career. It was an ego-stroke for you and Christian and Locke. For me, it was charity. And since I don't give a damn what Justin Locke has to say, I let him take one for the team and go down. And see, I think that's the difference between you and I, Carson. You're so concerned with this faux moral high ground you're standing on, but you don't get that it's why you won't beat me. See, I know I'm the best. Every fan who turns on that TV every Thursday night knows that, whether it's some hillbilly from Kentucky or some hot MILF from Orange County. They know that Arin Vegas is the best there is. Not just because he is so talented, but because he knows what it takes to win. And when some chump upstart wants to take what's his, but can't, they immediately say he's some unscrupulous kiss-ass. That's mudslinging, Carson. And you're accusing me of being low..."
He shakes his head and picks up the Bronx Championship, holding it in front of the camera. It's reflection played a trick on the lens of the camera, and the light refracted off in a rainbow pattern. Vegas moves the belt to avoid the light trick.
ARIN VEGAS: "So this is what you want, Carson? You want to walk out with this strapped around that cheeseburger holster you carry around on your torso? Because you know exactly what you have to get through to make that happen. You've seen just how 'low I can stoop' to hold this belt, and you know firsthand that I don't have the same moral qualms about ending your worthless career in that ring for this very piece of leather and gold. You, Syndergaard, Gregorio Montoya, Justin Locke, North Starr, Murphy Lane, Dante West... I don't give a crap who is on the other side of that ring when this belt is on the line. Whomever it is, they're just a body to be broken so that at the end of the night, 'Arin Vegas' is the only name printed on that faceplate. Because I don't give a damn how promising your matches have been thus far, against me, you're batting low. Exceptionally low. So unless you've come up with some genius plan to make this different than last time, I'm going to my bookie tonight. And you can bet your Subway-diet needing ass that when I put my money down, I'm going to..."
He smirks into the camera, holding the belt in view again. It's shining and sparkly and everything a belt should be. Vegas has a look in his eyes that is close to mania as he looks between the belt and the camera. His voice drops low and he leans in.
ARIN VEGAS: "Bet on me."
With that, the Champ stands up and clips the belt around his waist, where it belongs. The camera is focused directly on his abdomen, and the belt itself is the last thing the camera sees before it fades to black. An advertisement for Superbrawl X plays just after the promo is over, then black.