Post by Faster Pussycat! on Jul 12, 2005 21:43:28 GMT 1
[glow=white,2,300]I wanna go out 'cause it's raining and blowing.
I can't go out 'cause my roots are showing.
Dye em black.[/glow]
*The scene opens inside the deep dark sea of teenage bodies commonly know as a Rave. Hardstyle electric music pumps through every orifice of the building, but seems to creep slowly as do the shameless dancing people in the haze of smoke and lasers. The faster sharper music seems to prattle along in the distance, whereas the post-bass, pounding faux drums drone up front like an elite Task Force. The camera pans around the crowd, looking at faces, bodies, acts that would shock your parents. The camera scopes several young women’s eyes, which anyone conscience to the real world can readily confirm that these “women”, that these ladies are dead inside. The camera focuses on the face of one of these ladies, who is dancing, which is probably her best means to escape her woes. This girl opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue, and just seconds later is rewarded with a little, blue, treat. *
*The music stops, and the scene cuts to black. Moments later a rhythmic tapping, like that of steel on concert, echoes for a good few seconds. The tapping stops and a strange but familiar noise churns, and stops. Low and behold a door opens forward, giving light to the scene. The camera is focused on a pair of ugly, tall black leather boots, weighed down in metal buckles and sporting an ominous steel heel. The boots walk up a flight of black stairs, just to reach another door. Two knocks, then one knock is heard and the door opens. The room inside is a dark office, not that of a businessman’s but like that of a strip club owners’. The scene cuts to a close shot of the desk, a large window over looking the above mentioned rave, and what we can presume as the “owner”. Some papers and folders drop onto the desk and those clacking boots walk right back out of the office, followed by the closing door. All wee can see of the owner is his back. He is wearing a natural Buffalo skin coat, with a mass of brown fur up around the neck. Long wild black dreads pour over the top of the coat and down the back. Without notice the chair turns facing the camera, and we find our goo old friend, NIN Horror. Under the coat he is wearing a black shirt that in gold letters says, “From Ghana with love.” NIN has half of a lit cigarette in his right hand, takes a deep hit, and exhales slowly. He looks down, then at the camera. *
NIN: Look at them. You can go down there and ask anyone of them if they’re having a good time. Of coarse they will each say yes, unless they black out from drug poisoning, which I’m sure that at least half of them will. But below their smiles and euphoria none of them realize that this is the peak of their lives. They may go out different but in the end they all go out the same. Some of them will leave at five in the morning, get in their cars, put the pedal to the proverbial metal, hit 60, then black out from hours of rolling. Two things will happen to them. Death, or they will wake up three weeks later missing a leg and being partially retarded. I know, I saw a special on HBO, nasty stuff. But most of the other, possibly more fortunate will just live the next twelve years of their lives in halfway homes or on the streets, with their only motivation being that last hit of smack. Then there are the ones that will go home tomorrow, remembering nothing, and in a few weeks will learn that they are pregnant, because they took drugs, blacked out and got raped. The funny thing about that is most of them will be kicked out of the house on the grounds of “being a slut.”
*NIN takes another hit of the cigarette and laughs slightly. *
NIN: But the funniest thing is you can’t make that shit up. It happens everyday, in every city, and no one involved wants to stop it. You may now begin asking yourself, ‘why would people do some thing that they shouldn’t do, knowing that it hurts them, and in time will put them away.?’
*NIN puts the cigarette in his mouth and reaches under the desk. He pulls out a large glass bottle of rum, and the CWA World Title belt. He places the belt face up on the desk, takes the cig out of his mouth and downs a good bit of the rum. He puts the bottle on the table, and takes another deep hit, and exhales slowly. He slides back in the chair, and pauses. You know he’s looking at the beautiful gold faceplate of the CWA World belt as he begins to speak. *
NIN: I’ve been with p2p for about five months now. I’ve had four matches, one on a PPV, one on the c show, one on the b show, and one on the flagship show. They were all fillers. A match who’s only purpose is to kill time. I had a filler match on TNT last week and I have what I think is another filler this week on TNT. I know it’s the main event of the flagship show and I should be happy right? Guess what, I’m not. The only reason this match is the main event is to try and consul the p2p veteran Red Ninja over his Losing of the tag team titles at Momentum. No body will admit it but the all know it. The only shard of hope that I can see is this is the thought that this might mean that I finally have a regular TV spot. But deep down I have a feeling that management will give me the next two weeks off, then send me back to freakin Superstar Sunday. … I’ve been with p2p for five months. Samoa Joe was with RoH for six months when they gave him the World title for twenty-one months. Just six months and he gets the grandest title in North America. Five months in p2p gets me a triple threat with a Sith Lord and a fuckin, I-don’t-know-what. I know I’m better than Samoa Joe, and I know I’m better than the hacks in p2p. I’ve come from waiting a month just to get booked to practically defeating the whole Blood Pack in one match, and completely destroying two “favorites” last week. I have won titles all over the globe. I’ve been busting my ass for the last TEN years. I’ve lived in my car and lost near gallons of blood just to go over a Kane rip-off in my p2p debut?
*NIN takes a quick hit and tosses the cigarette away. He is now angry, and looking at the camera. *
NIN: I don’t care who I have to hurt but someone’s getting hurt. Red Ninja, I know you from GWX, trust me, I mean no hard feelings but I’m going to make an example of you this week. I don’t care what you’ve done here in p2p, I don’t care about Spaz dumping you or you losing the tag titles. I’m going over you clean and decisively because I need it. I am going to have maim my opponents until the bookers finally cave in and give me the credit I deserve. Fine. Go ahead and nail me on the cross because I am paying for the sins of p2p. This week I go over Ninja, next week, I don’t know. But one thing can be certain, I will get bigger every week, more “New Horror Show” T-shirts will sell at the gift stands. Just be ready for it.
*NIN stands up, grabs his title off the table, and walks off. The camera doesn’t move as it fades to black. *
I can't go out 'cause my roots are showing.
Dye em black.[/glow]
*The scene opens inside the deep dark sea of teenage bodies commonly know as a Rave. Hardstyle electric music pumps through every orifice of the building, but seems to creep slowly as do the shameless dancing people in the haze of smoke and lasers. The faster sharper music seems to prattle along in the distance, whereas the post-bass, pounding faux drums drone up front like an elite Task Force. The camera pans around the crowd, looking at faces, bodies, acts that would shock your parents. The camera scopes several young women’s eyes, which anyone conscience to the real world can readily confirm that these “women”, that these ladies are dead inside. The camera focuses on the face of one of these ladies, who is dancing, which is probably her best means to escape her woes. This girl opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue, and just seconds later is rewarded with a little, blue, treat. *
*The music stops, and the scene cuts to black. Moments later a rhythmic tapping, like that of steel on concert, echoes for a good few seconds. The tapping stops and a strange but familiar noise churns, and stops. Low and behold a door opens forward, giving light to the scene. The camera is focused on a pair of ugly, tall black leather boots, weighed down in metal buckles and sporting an ominous steel heel. The boots walk up a flight of black stairs, just to reach another door. Two knocks, then one knock is heard and the door opens. The room inside is a dark office, not that of a businessman’s but like that of a strip club owners’. The scene cuts to a close shot of the desk, a large window over looking the above mentioned rave, and what we can presume as the “owner”. Some papers and folders drop onto the desk and those clacking boots walk right back out of the office, followed by the closing door. All wee can see of the owner is his back. He is wearing a natural Buffalo skin coat, with a mass of brown fur up around the neck. Long wild black dreads pour over the top of the coat and down the back. Without notice the chair turns facing the camera, and we find our goo old friend, NIN Horror. Under the coat he is wearing a black shirt that in gold letters says, “From Ghana with love.” NIN has half of a lit cigarette in his right hand, takes a deep hit, and exhales slowly. He looks down, then at the camera. *
NIN: Look at them. You can go down there and ask anyone of them if they’re having a good time. Of coarse they will each say yes, unless they black out from drug poisoning, which I’m sure that at least half of them will. But below their smiles and euphoria none of them realize that this is the peak of their lives. They may go out different but in the end they all go out the same. Some of them will leave at five in the morning, get in their cars, put the pedal to the proverbial metal, hit 60, then black out from hours of rolling. Two things will happen to them. Death, or they will wake up three weeks later missing a leg and being partially retarded. I know, I saw a special on HBO, nasty stuff. But most of the other, possibly more fortunate will just live the next twelve years of their lives in halfway homes or on the streets, with their only motivation being that last hit of smack. Then there are the ones that will go home tomorrow, remembering nothing, and in a few weeks will learn that they are pregnant, because they took drugs, blacked out and got raped. The funny thing about that is most of them will be kicked out of the house on the grounds of “being a slut.”
*NIN takes another hit of the cigarette and laughs slightly. *
NIN: But the funniest thing is you can’t make that shit up. It happens everyday, in every city, and no one involved wants to stop it. You may now begin asking yourself, ‘why would people do some thing that they shouldn’t do, knowing that it hurts them, and in time will put them away.?’
*NIN puts the cigarette in his mouth and reaches under the desk. He pulls out a large glass bottle of rum, and the CWA World Title belt. He places the belt face up on the desk, takes the cig out of his mouth and downs a good bit of the rum. He puts the bottle on the table, and takes another deep hit, and exhales slowly. He slides back in the chair, and pauses. You know he’s looking at the beautiful gold faceplate of the CWA World belt as he begins to speak. *
NIN: I’ve been with p2p for about five months now. I’ve had four matches, one on a PPV, one on the c show, one on the b show, and one on the flagship show. They were all fillers. A match who’s only purpose is to kill time. I had a filler match on TNT last week and I have what I think is another filler this week on TNT. I know it’s the main event of the flagship show and I should be happy right? Guess what, I’m not. The only reason this match is the main event is to try and consul the p2p veteran Red Ninja over his Losing of the tag team titles at Momentum. No body will admit it but the all know it. The only shard of hope that I can see is this is the thought that this might mean that I finally have a regular TV spot. But deep down I have a feeling that management will give me the next two weeks off, then send me back to freakin Superstar Sunday. … I’ve been with p2p for five months. Samoa Joe was with RoH for six months when they gave him the World title for twenty-one months. Just six months and he gets the grandest title in North America. Five months in p2p gets me a triple threat with a Sith Lord and a fuckin, I-don’t-know-what. I know I’m better than Samoa Joe, and I know I’m better than the hacks in p2p. I’ve come from waiting a month just to get booked to practically defeating the whole Blood Pack in one match, and completely destroying two “favorites” last week. I have won titles all over the globe. I’ve been busting my ass for the last TEN years. I’ve lived in my car and lost near gallons of blood just to go over a Kane rip-off in my p2p debut?
*NIN takes a quick hit and tosses the cigarette away. He is now angry, and looking at the camera. *
NIN: I don’t care who I have to hurt but someone’s getting hurt. Red Ninja, I know you from GWX, trust me, I mean no hard feelings but I’m going to make an example of you this week. I don’t care what you’ve done here in p2p, I don’t care about Spaz dumping you or you losing the tag titles. I’m going over you clean and decisively because I need it. I am going to have maim my opponents until the bookers finally cave in and give me the credit I deserve. Fine. Go ahead and nail me on the cross because I am paying for the sins of p2p. This week I go over Ninja, next week, I don’t know. But one thing can be certain, I will get bigger every week, more “New Horror Show” T-shirts will sell at the gift stands. Just be ready for it.
*NIN stands up, grabs his title off the table, and walks off. The camera doesn’t move as it fades to black. *