Post by Sang Réal on Jun 22, 2014 8:14:01 GMT -6
Morning has come to a well maintained stretch of grass surrounded by well manicured trees. Dotted along the fields of grass are small pits of sand and only two small ponds. Spread over the area are small patches of light green with a hole in each of them, with flags sticking out of the holes. This is a golf course.
It is a nice day for golf. Only a few clouds slowly drift overhead. There seems to be no breeze on this day. The grass has been freshly cut. It is a nice day for a round of gold indeed.
On one of the holes of the course are two golf carts with clubs. Two caddies stand by the carts. Connor Murphy, dressed in a pair of golf shoes, pants and a golf shirt, and Gabriel Krown, dressed in a pair of shorts, a sweater vest, golf shoes and a hat that looks like a cliché golfer look, the two second generation wrestlers known as Sang Réal, stand on the course.
Krown twists one of his clubs in his hand as Murphy looks down the hole. Murphy finishes the drink he has in his hand and signals for the caddy to take it from him. The caddy takes the empty glass and moves back to the cart.
Murphy: “Cornbread Mafia, do you two believe in signs?”
Krown: “Not the M. Night Shyamalan movie, which was probably his last good movie before his decline. I mean, really, what happened to that guy? He went form making good movies with nice twist endings to making crap.”
Shjaking his head, Murphy ignores his more technically gifted, yet unpredictable partner.
Murphy: “No, not the movie. I mean things than cannot be explained away as simple coincidences.”
Murphy reaches into his pocket and opens his wallet.
Krown: “Much like in the movie, Signs, when everything Mel Gibson’s character’s wife’s dieing words proved prophetic in fighting off the alien that tried to kill his son.”
Murphy ignores the comment and pulls out what appears to be a small, thin, white piece of paper from his wallet. There appears to be something written on the back that looks like symbols more than words, and numbers.
Murphy: “See, I generally don’t, but this past week, I had Chinese, both as a date and as a meal, and of course, you always get a fortune cookie at the end of the meal. Now, ordinarily they are either just some nice little phrase, or a compliment, or just stupid or some random junk fortune with no real meaning because it is a cookie, not the Oracle of Delphi.”
Krown: “And nearly 99.9% can have the words “in bed” attached to the end of whatever they say.”
Unable to find a counter argument as it is pretty much a well known fact, Murphy nods in agreement.
Murphy: “This is the one I received last week; “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”.”
Sang Réal brawling half turns the fortune around and holds it up. The words are there in blue letters.
Krown: “In bed.”
The son of Shameus Murphy turns to his tag team partner and raises an eyebrow. Krown just shrugs. Murphy sighs and slips the fortune into his wallet and then slips the wallet into his pocket.
Murphy: “Ordinarily, I do not take stock in what a desert has to say, other than whatever is written on the cake served at whatever party I am at, but this one made absolute sense to me. You see Cornbread Mafia, it is fitting for our match because while you started this we, the thoroughbreds, are going to finish it.”
Krown: “And by “it” we mean “you”, the Cornbread Mafia, in case you didn’t get that already. “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. We are thoroughbreds and we are finishers.”
Krown twirls the golf club in his hand for a moment.
Murphy: “This whole thing should have been over months ago, when we beat you at Tragic Engagement. But no, you two couldn’t accept the fact that you two lost, so you had to start a fight that you two could not finish. We gave you a rematch at Spring Slaughter and rather than prove you could beat us, you had to get some fatass, who thinks an all you can eat buffet should be an all day trip, to help you out. Now here we are again, one last time and for the final time. This time we will prove that we are better than you.”
Krown: “We already dress, look, smell, and wrestle better than you, we may as well just confirm it.”
The technical wrestling half of the second generation tag team gestures to himself and to Murphy to try and get the point across.
Murphy: “We have indulged the joke that is the Cornbread Mafia long enough. This should have ended at Spring Slaughter. At Searing Agony, inside a fifteen foot high steel cage, it will end. No one, not your girlfriends, not Fatty McButterball, is going to help you get out of this one. Inside that cage, we can do whatever we want.”
Krown: “Ever been inside a steel cage? The only ways to win are escape the cage either by climbing out or going out the door, pinfall or submission. The rules, however, are rather unspecific as to how we accomplish any of that.”
Krown smiles a bit at that idea.
Murphy: “And when it is all said and done, when we finally put you two down, that will be the end of the Cornbread Mafia, because without us, without Sang Réal, you have absolutely nothing.”
Wagging his finger, Krown shakes his head.
Krown: “Sad but true, we are the only thing keeping you two employed, the only reason you two seem to have jobs here. We have other stuff going on. Maybe we start a feud with The Silver City Knights, our new resident defender and his crazy friend and their legions of hookers? We could get into it with K.I.S.S. again, if the Children don’t finish them. Or maybe we get some shenanigans going Bene Elohim? Who knows? Or maybe we just stick to commentary. The point is that we have options. You two don’t. Your sad, pathetic, hick worlds seem to revolve around Sang Réal. Don’t believe me? Your last match was against us, two months ago. Two months, during which time, we've done things and you haven't.”
Murphy: “He’s right. Two months ago, you two faced us and stole a win at Spring Slaughter. Before that, every match you have involved one of us or was a tag team match with us. The only match you have had where Sang Réal was not involved was your loss to K.I.S.S. We are your world.”
Krown: “It’s a world that will come down on you at Searing Agony.”
Pointing two fingers upward and lifting his arm, Krown whistles like a bomb dropping as he brings his hand down and then opens his hand like an explosion making a “popping” noise. He then takes a practice swing.
Murphy: “Look at the facts Cornbread Mafia. Every match you have had, except one, has involved Sang Réal. You have not been in a match in two months since that time. We have. Now I doubt it was because Lardass McGee decided you two needed the time off. Simply put, no one here cares about you. They have not even missed you.”
Using the club in his hand, Krown points the handle at himself and Murphy, who signals for a club. The caddy hands him one, but Murphy does not take a swing. He keeps looking down the course.
Krown: “We’re pretty much on every episode of Monday Night Mayhem and not once have I seen a “We want the Cornbread Mafia” sign or anything like that, although, that may change now. I have not even seen a t-shirt. We have a t-shirt. We’ve had a lot of t-shirts. When we go out there to do commentary or wrestle, no one is chanting your name, but they are reacting to us. You have nothing without us.”
Murphy: “Those fans do no give a damn about you. They are not cheering you because they love your good ole boy Southern style. They are not cheering for you because you make moonshine and somehow they see you as rebels, or a poor man’s Dukes of Hazard. They are not cheering you because you somehow represent the working man. They are cheering you because those idiots have no taste and do not like us. No one in management or whoever is making matches gives a damn about you either because, given the fact that you have not wrestled since Spring Slaughter, no one wants you on Monday Night Mayhem. The fans may not like us, but those peasants are paying to see us. No one is paying to see you.”
Krown: “You have nothing without us. Sang Réal does not need the Cornbread Mafia to survive. We beat you, we move on with our lives. We face some other team, we do commentary, and we do something. However, if you two lose…well it is pretty obvious that you need us a lot more than we need you. Without us, you have nothing. Why would you make that something you would do, attaching your name to someone else so desperately to try and make a name for yourselves?”
Murphy: “See, we have a light at the end of the tunnel. We have bigger goals here than wasting our time on a pair of hicks. We will go on, challenge for titles and leave you two in the dirt where you belong. Love us or hate us, they still pay to see us. Sang Réal does not need to Cornbread Mafia to survive. The Cornbread Mafia needs Sang Réal to survive. You two are parasites sucking off us because it is the only reason anyone gives a damn you two are even here.”
Krown nods at that statement.
Krown: “And you aren’t even useful parasites. I mean, it’s not like you are cleaning our teeth or giving us a bath or anything useful like this is a symbiotic relationship. You guys are like tapeworms or something, parasites, but not helpful parasites. You are the flies buzzing around the thoroughbreds. You’re like mosquitoes or ticks, sucking the blood from us.”
Murphy: “This is a fight you two started when you jumped us in a parking lot after Tragic Engagement, where we beat you. What I love about that is that no one thought it was cheap or cowardly when you did it. If we did it, people would think it’s cheap and cowardly, but when you guys did it, it was totally justified. Out of our own kindness and pity, we gave you a rematch, and how did you two win that? Was it on your own ability? Did you prove the better team?”
In an exaggerated gesture, Krown starts to stroke his chin and makes a face like he is thinking.
Krown: “As I recollect, they did not.”
Murphy: “No, they did not. They call us out on our tactics, judge us on how we act and yet they conspire with the Tubby O’Blimp, a man who is not the CEO or President of UWA, nor is he the commissioner and thus would not have the power to restart a match, but apparently no one here seems to recognize that, and yet somehow that was totally fair for a guy with no power to do so to restart the match. Not going to happen this time.”
Krown: “The only way to win a cage match is by going climbing out over the top, out the door, or by pinfall or submission, and it doesn’t matter how we get the job done. And unlike you two parasites, we are going to get the job done. We are going to beat you and there will not be a fat guy to save you this time.”
Murphy: ““Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish””. We are the thoroughbreds. We always have been and we always will be. This is a fight that you cannot and finish, but we can and we will. Your world in UWA has revolved around Sang Réal and that world is going to come down crashing down inside a steel cage. “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. That is Murphy’s Law.”
Krown: “Sure you guys could go with “that’s how the cookie crumbles” or something, but we’re taking it as a sign. We are the thoroughbreds and we’re getting rid of the parasites that keep feeding on us. We made you, and we are going to break you. Like the cookie said ““Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. That’s Checkmate.”
Finally, Murphy takes a ball out of his pocket and sets it down on the tee. He shifts and takes his position for his swing.
Murphy: “We are Sang Réal.”
Krown: “And we were just born better than you two parasites.”
Reeling back, Murphy takes his swing. The head of the club hits the ball with a slight “thwack” noise. It goes flying down the course. The scene fades out as the two watch the ball sail through the air.
It is a nice day for golf. Only a few clouds slowly drift overhead. There seems to be no breeze on this day. The grass has been freshly cut. It is a nice day for a round of gold indeed.
On one of the holes of the course are two golf carts with clubs. Two caddies stand by the carts. Connor Murphy, dressed in a pair of golf shoes, pants and a golf shirt, and Gabriel Krown, dressed in a pair of shorts, a sweater vest, golf shoes and a hat that looks like a cliché golfer look, the two second generation wrestlers known as Sang Réal, stand on the course.
Krown twists one of his clubs in his hand as Murphy looks down the hole. Murphy finishes the drink he has in his hand and signals for the caddy to take it from him. The caddy takes the empty glass and moves back to the cart.
Murphy: “Cornbread Mafia, do you two believe in signs?”
Krown: “Not the M. Night Shyamalan movie, which was probably his last good movie before his decline. I mean, really, what happened to that guy? He went form making good movies with nice twist endings to making crap.”
Shjaking his head, Murphy ignores his more technically gifted, yet unpredictable partner.
Murphy: “No, not the movie. I mean things than cannot be explained away as simple coincidences.”
Murphy reaches into his pocket and opens his wallet.
Krown: “Much like in the movie, Signs, when everything Mel Gibson’s character’s wife’s dieing words proved prophetic in fighting off the alien that tried to kill his son.”
Murphy ignores the comment and pulls out what appears to be a small, thin, white piece of paper from his wallet. There appears to be something written on the back that looks like symbols more than words, and numbers.
Murphy: “See, I generally don’t, but this past week, I had Chinese, both as a date and as a meal, and of course, you always get a fortune cookie at the end of the meal. Now, ordinarily they are either just some nice little phrase, or a compliment, or just stupid or some random junk fortune with no real meaning because it is a cookie, not the Oracle of Delphi.”
Krown: “And nearly 99.9% can have the words “in bed” attached to the end of whatever they say.”
Unable to find a counter argument as it is pretty much a well known fact, Murphy nods in agreement.
Murphy: “This is the one I received last week; “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”.”
Sang Réal brawling half turns the fortune around and holds it up. The words are there in blue letters.
Krown: “In bed.”
The son of Shameus Murphy turns to his tag team partner and raises an eyebrow. Krown just shrugs. Murphy sighs and slips the fortune into his wallet and then slips the wallet into his pocket.
Murphy: “Ordinarily, I do not take stock in what a desert has to say, other than whatever is written on the cake served at whatever party I am at, but this one made absolute sense to me. You see Cornbread Mafia, it is fitting for our match because while you started this we, the thoroughbreds, are going to finish it.”
Krown: “And by “it” we mean “you”, the Cornbread Mafia, in case you didn’t get that already. “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. We are thoroughbreds and we are finishers.”
Krown twirls the golf club in his hand for a moment.
Murphy: “This whole thing should have been over months ago, when we beat you at Tragic Engagement. But no, you two couldn’t accept the fact that you two lost, so you had to start a fight that you two could not finish. We gave you a rematch at Spring Slaughter and rather than prove you could beat us, you had to get some fatass, who thinks an all you can eat buffet should be an all day trip, to help you out. Now here we are again, one last time and for the final time. This time we will prove that we are better than you.”
Krown: “We already dress, look, smell, and wrestle better than you, we may as well just confirm it.”
The technical wrestling half of the second generation tag team gestures to himself and to Murphy to try and get the point across.
Murphy: “We have indulged the joke that is the Cornbread Mafia long enough. This should have ended at Spring Slaughter. At Searing Agony, inside a fifteen foot high steel cage, it will end. No one, not your girlfriends, not Fatty McButterball, is going to help you get out of this one. Inside that cage, we can do whatever we want.”
Krown: “Ever been inside a steel cage? The only ways to win are escape the cage either by climbing out or going out the door, pinfall or submission. The rules, however, are rather unspecific as to how we accomplish any of that.”
Krown smiles a bit at that idea.
Murphy: “And when it is all said and done, when we finally put you two down, that will be the end of the Cornbread Mafia, because without us, without Sang Réal, you have absolutely nothing.”
Wagging his finger, Krown shakes his head.
Krown: “Sad but true, we are the only thing keeping you two employed, the only reason you two seem to have jobs here. We have other stuff going on. Maybe we start a feud with The Silver City Knights, our new resident defender and his crazy friend and their legions of hookers? We could get into it with K.I.S.S. again, if the Children don’t finish them. Or maybe we get some shenanigans going Bene Elohim? Who knows? Or maybe we just stick to commentary. The point is that we have options. You two don’t. Your sad, pathetic, hick worlds seem to revolve around Sang Réal. Don’t believe me? Your last match was against us, two months ago. Two months, during which time, we've done things and you haven't.”
Murphy: “He’s right. Two months ago, you two faced us and stole a win at Spring Slaughter. Before that, every match you have involved one of us or was a tag team match with us. The only match you have had where Sang Réal was not involved was your loss to K.I.S.S. We are your world.”
Krown: “It’s a world that will come down on you at Searing Agony.”
Pointing two fingers upward and lifting his arm, Krown whistles like a bomb dropping as he brings his hand down and then opens his hand like an explosion making a “popping” noise. He then takes a practice swing.
Murphy: “Look at the facts Cornbread Mafia. Every match you have had, except one, has involved Sang Réal. You have not been in a match in two months since that time. We have. Now I doubt it was because Lardass McGee decided you two needed the time off. Simply put, no one here cares about you. They have not even missed you.”
Using the club in his hand, Krown points the handle at himself and Murphy, who signals for a club. The caddy hands him one, but Murphy does not take a swing. He keeps looking down the course.
Krown: “We’re pretty much on every episode of Monday Night Mayhem and not once have I seen a “We want the Cornbread Mafia” sign or anything like that, although, that may change now. I have not even seen a t-shirt. We have a t-shirt. We’ve had a lot of t-shirts. When we go out there to do commentary or wrestle, no one is chanting your name, but they are reacting to us. You have nothing without us.”
Murphy: “Those fans do no give a damn about you. They are not cheering you because they love your good ole boy Southern style. They are not cheering for you because you make moonshine and somehow they see you as rebels, or a poor man’s Dukes of Hazard. They are not cheering you because you somehow represent the working man. They are cheering you because those idiots have no taste and do not like us. No one in management or whoever is making matches gives a damn about you either because, given the fact that you have not wrestled since Spring Slaughter, no one wants you on Monday Night Mayhem. The fans may not like us, but those peasants are paying to see us. No one is paying to see you.”
Krown: “You have nothing without us. Sang Réal does not need the Cornbread Mafia to survive. We beat you, we move on with our lives. We face some other team, we do commentary, and we do something. However, if you two lose…well it is pretty obvious that you need us a lot more than we need you. Without us, you have nothing. Why would you make that something you would do, attaching your name to someone else so desperately to try and make a name for yourselves?”
Murphy: “See, we have a light at the end of the tunnel. We have bigger goals here than wasting our time on a pair of hicks. We will go on, challenge for titles and leave you two in the dirt where you belong. Love us or hate us, they still pay to see us. Sang Réal does not need to Cornbread Mafia to survive. The Cornbread Mafia needs Sang Réal to survive. You two are parasites sucking off us because it is the only reason anyone gives a damn you two are even here.”
Krown nods at that statement.
Krown: “And you aren’t even useful parasites. I mean, it’s not like you are cleaning our teeth or giving us a bath or anything useful like this is a symbiotic relationship. You guys are like tapeworms or something, parasites, but not helpful parasites. You are the flies buzzing around the thoroughbreds. You’re like mosquitoes or ticks, sucking the blood from us.”
Murphy: “This is a fight you two started when you jumped us in a parking lot after Tragic Engagement, where we beat you. What I love about that is that no one thought it was cheap or cowardly when you did it. If we did it, people would think it’s cheap and cowardly, but when you guys did it, it was totally justified. Out of our own kindness and pity, we gave you a rematch, and how did you two win that? Was it on your own ability? Did you prove the better team?”
In an exaggerated gesture, Krown starts to stroke his chin and makes a face like he is thinking.
Krown: “As I recollect, they did not.”
Murphy: “No, they did not. They call us out on our tactics, judge us on how we act and yet they conspire with the Tubby O’Blimp, a man who is not the CEO or President of UWA, nor is he the commissioner and thus would not have the power to restart a match, but apparently no one here seems to recognize that, and yet somehow that was totally fair for a guy with no power to do so to restart the match. Not going to happen this time.”
Krown: “The only way to win a cage match is by going climbing out over the top, out the door, or by pinfall or submission, and it doesn’t matter how we get the job done. And unlike you two parasites, we are going to get the job done. We are going to beat you and there will not be a fat guy to save you this time.”
Murphy: ““Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish””. We are the thoroughbreds. We always have been and we always will be. This is a fight that you cannot and finish, but we can and we will. Your world in UWA has revolved around Sang Réal and that world is going to come down crashing down inside a steel cage. “Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. That is Murphy’s Law.”
Krown: “Sure you guys could go with “that’s how the cookie crumbles” or something, but we’re taking it as a sign. We are the thoroughbreds and we’re getting rid of the parasites that keep feeding on us. We made you, and we are going to break you. Like the cookie said ““Anyone can “start”, only the thoroughbred will “finish”. That’s Checkmate.”
Finally, Murphy takes a ball out of his pocket and sets it down on the tee. He shifts and takes his position for his swing.
Murphy: “We are Sang Réal.”
Krown: “And we were just born better than you two parasites.”
Reeling back, Murphy takes his swing. The head of the club hits the ball with a slight “thwack” noise. It goes flying down the course. The scene fades out as the two watch the ball sail through the air.