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Post by Ben Jacobs on May 21, 2009 12:24:08 GMT -6
Place RPs below...
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RP Limit: 2
2 point early rp bonus for each wrestler's first rp which scores above 10 and is posted prior to Tuesday May 26th @ 3:30 PM CST.
RP deadline is Tuesday, June 2nd @ 11:59 PM CST
Match & segment deadline is Wednesday, June 3rd @ 8:30 AM CST.
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Post by High Society on Jun 2, 2009 11:04:06 GMT -6
I am a Yorkshire Man and I am a Cunning Man. I don’t ask for much but I expect a lot. I have never wanted for anything: the finest clothes, the fastest cars, the prettiest girls – all at my disposal. I’ve never had to work. Never had to break my back, to sweat and toil for a pittance.
I am an earnest man. “Outspoken” some might say. “Conceited”, others. Let them. Honesty is a virtue that few possess but many aspire to. But honesty is not about this rather archaic notion of “the truth”. It’s about conviction. It’s about having faith in your own abilities, in your words and in your actions. Everything I say or do is justified. Justified by my unwavering assurance that I am right.
I am an articulate man, an educated man. I am a noble man, a gracious man. I am a gifted man. But most of all I am a Cunning Man, and I curse you! I see your weakness, your frailties and I exploit them. Until you lose. Until you leave – I will curse you!
The Chase Hotel, York. Five pints and five whiskies playing hide and seek in his guts. Without a belt, or a wing or a prayer for that matter. Fat, fucked and boozing. His big opportunity. A title match in front of a sold out arena. A captivated audience just waiting for him to ruffle some feathers and defy the odds one more time. And he’d blown it. His undefeated streak ended. His momentum brought to an abrupt halt. And so back to England once again. Lovely forgiving Blighty. Wonderful unassuming Blighty. She who doesn’t judge. She who expects nothing but promises so much. Back to cheery old Blighty to lick his wounds and recuperate.
And yet he didn’t feel any happier here. At least not at the moment. The pain of defeat was still raw and the alcohol did little to anesthetise him. It only served to make his thoughts hazy… and his temper violent.
She was the only friend he had. Known him since they were kids. He was far from popular – some things never change. But in spite of the neurotic self-absorption, the illegitimate offspring and increasing dependence on drink and drugs that plagued his adolescence, she liked him. She believed in him even then. Talked to him about the business. Morning, noon and night. Taught him everything she’d learnt from her father, the “tricks of the trade” as she called them. She brought out the best in him. Moral courage. Physical bravery. The strength to take on the world. She brought out the worst. The arrogance. The selfishness. The rudeness. But she still liked him when he won his first title. Still believed in him when the other boys in the dressing room despised him, when they plotted and schemed to get rid of him –
And he needed her now. That belief. That faith. He needed her now more than ever. So why had he berated her? Chastised her for her involvement, or rather her lack thereof, in his title match. She should have intervened. That was her job. To ensure he won at all costs. If he couldn’t rely on her who could he trust? But it wasn’t her fault and he knew that. Still, he wouldn’t apologise. Through her tears and misery he still refused to say sorry. A man should never express feelings of regret. It showed him to be weak and feeble. He wouldn’t crack. Not even when she begged for his forgiveness. He knew that any other man would have felt remorseful, even guilty, but that’s what separated him from the others. He was impervious to such feelings.
He showers, bathes and dresses alone.
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