Post by Savage on Nov 7, 2019 15:33:08 GMT -6
It is official, Mr. Savage; this is the most shit-in-your-pants inducing house I've ever been inside.
Today's GCWA lens jockey is named Kenneth, and today, he received a special guided tour of Tony's permanent residence. Tony's wife fell in love with a grandiose Bordeaux style estate in Highland Park, outside of Dallas. High affluent doesn't do this neighborhood justice. Cowboys owner Jerry Jones and Mark Cuban own property in this posh little slice of the Lone Star state. Big money calls this community home.
It was obvious that Cassandra held sway over the decorating of their new multi-million dollar love nest; there were art pieces, flowers, and soft, warm fabrics and colors not typically associated with a snarly, hardened wrecking machine's habitat. But, he liked it, mostly because the Mrs. Dr. adored it. Hey, happy wife, happy life. Rightfully so, he let her hold sway over most of the house. But the east wing...
Different story. The place was a goddamned shrine to murder!
There were five more rooms which sported similarly frightening curio. Swords, spears, and other melee weapons were on display. Kenneth saw tribal war masks from places like East Africa and Mayan Mexico. A entire room was devoted to artifacts from various Savages through military conflicts. Fun fact, Young Kenneth learned from Tony, as they arrived in his office, and he pulled an old, worn officer's saber off the rack behind his desk.
Since 1861, at one point or another, every male Savage, and more than a handful of our women, have taken up arms in the service of our country. Every one. Hell, my brother Nate; his oldest shipped out for Marine boot camp in Pendelton just 3 weeks ago.
Wow. Every man?
Yeah, a lot of relics from generations of folk who do bad things for good reasons. Tony responds, unsheathing the blade and twirling it with almost automatic ease in his massive hand. In fact, this saber belong to Augustus Savage, a major in the Illinois militia during the Civil War. He got major heat from some of our kinfolk back in Georgia for taking up arms for the Yankees. Having a problem with people enslaving other people didn't sit well with some of our blood. Fought at Antietam in 1862. One of the worst slaughterhouses in American history. 33,000 dead or wounded. Can you imagine; wading through blood, piss, and shit in some god forsaken wet and cold bog? it didn't stop there. The Philippines, two world wars, Korea, 'Nam, Afghanistan and Iraq.
Pops always had this saying to us Savage kids, he said, putting the blade away.Blood is our family's currency. That's how we pay our way in the world. Put food on our table. Don't matter if it's the streets, a battlefield, or in a boardroom. To get what we wants, seems like we gotta get grimy.
There were more relics; pictures of Tony's days in other venues, hanging on the walls. Standing over Sean Fuller after a fight in a prison. Another one shows him soaking in cattle and human blood in 2017, defending his International strap against one of EWC's pet projects. Cages, taped fist fights, ladder matches. Some of those pics were from matches he lost. To Tony, it was important to show his resume, both good and bad.
People need to know what they're facing. And from Kenny gathered, from both this sobering museum and what he's seen so far from the wrestling Ronin...
This was not a man squeamish to suffer and inflict suffering to get what he wanted.
That last pic he scoped of Tony, wrapped in bandages, in a military hospital in Germany after nearly getting blow to bits outside Kabul, drove the point home.
Geez. You ever...ever think...if you had the choice...
I don't think that way. We all make choices.
A pause, then, Kenny asked this question: Heard you caught some flack for the "Duce has to work for you" stip. Some people think...
Yeah, I heard: mean ol' rich white dude trying to put the screws to poor minority. I love social media; Cassandra calls it an experiment in abnormal psychology and lack of critical thinking. Mumble Rapper had a choice. Guy could have easily told me to kick rocks with my deal. Could have told me to shove my arrogance and money up my ass. He didn't. He put his signature to it.
He made his choice. As a free willed, reasonably intelligent man. As did I, to put my money and reputation, possibly my life, at risk. Lot of people depending on me to pull this off. These faux "woke" motherfuckers are asleep at the wheel. People need to learn not to pull out the race card until they find out what the game is.
Tony seemed regretful, having to say that. He was the type of guy that only cared about results, not superficial shit like how much melanin is in skin cells. But people, they like crutches. Tony learned to toss his aside. It's one of the steps to building a legacy.
Surprised you're not in Vegas with most of the roster...
Been there enough, I don't need to do some cliched gambling metaphor shoot. Besides, considering the pot I pushed in, nobody on the roster's risking more than me. Except Duce, perhaps. Man, that guy has NO idea what I'm like in murder mode.
But he was impressed with how Jones was handling things. Duce had some grasp about the situation; this was one of the biggest, most pivotal moments in his life. A moment that could define his career. But the racism thing...
Tony was going to end that shit quick. An educator teaching a promising, but still, naive, rising mega-star, some things he had to learn himself the hard way.
Something confusing me, Jones. Maybe the education system in Memphis has some glaring flaws in it, or people distorting legal and historical facts with self interest and social justice warrior doublespeak is hot in Tennessee, but...
If I considered you field hand material, some poor boy from the streets to be exploited, then, why would a guy like me even bothered to communicate with you, let alone, offer you a chance to elevate from superstar to legend, huh? Why would I have given you your biggest moment in your GCWA career, the match of the night...
If I simply wanted to hold you in bondage, huh? C'mon, you're street, buddy, not stupid. You signed that deal. You saw that money and made the choice. I din't come out with a gun pointed to your head. Hell, that contract signing, I gave you all the respect and due in the world. As you deserved for your efforts. Now, what do I get from you in repayment...
Suddenly, fat Colin Kapernick comes out. Tsk. Very poor form, Duce. Expected something better from a champion that's busted his ass to get where he is.
Tony stops, and looks at a display case. He wipes a spot off the glass before his speech continues.
Funny thing is, Duce, you and I aren't so different. Just another hardass Southern man, a little gutter in his speech and demeanor, tearing ass up and down venues. Full of piss and vinegar, just gonna punch my way through every schmuck I come across. And it worked...
For awhile.
Then, I started to learn how the game is really played. The hard way. Somebody better than me at the time went out of their way to teach a painful message.After awhile, I got the point. After that..
He points around his home.
I got shit like this.
I'm starting to get this creeping feeling you're getting cold feet over this, huh? I wouldn't blame ya. If I found out I had to fight me, I'd be a little nervous, too. All that weak trash coming out of your mouth, mocking the moves I make, the racial shit...
Smokescreen. Conjecture to try to fool people into believing you're the hero, the reason you're now in this elevated position with one of the biggest hot lights flashing on you.
The ultimate game of death between rising star and established superstar. The highest stake table in the casino. And you, this is what comes out your mouth...
'Dis cracka ain't shit but mutahfuckin' Eli Whitney tryin' ta keep me down.
Fact: it was a few minutes of me coming out to make that offer that made this match blow up to the level that Barrows is advertising it. Fact; it was me that gave you an new level of shine, and a challenge nobody's given you in any of your feds. Fact: I've been outplaying you, out training you, out promoting...
And considering how a smart man like you degraded into turning a big money, resume building fight into a social issue...
Out MANNING you, you dumb motherfucker! Tony Savage has been BUILDING you up, putting you on a new pedestal. Not sure how a guy trying to help you be bigger than you are now is putting you under the yoke, considering...
YOU WERE THE MOTHERFUCKER THAT WAS ALL TOO EAGER TO SEAL THE DEAL ONCE THAT MONEY APPEARED IN YOUR VISION! AND NOW, YOU WANT TO PULL THAT SHIT WITH ME BECAUSE YOU FINALLY REALIZED YOU WERE IN A ROYAL SHIT-STORM NOW!!
His face reddens, veins bulge. Then, he frowns, shakes his head.
Worst part of it is, there was a couple of times in my career that I rolled like that, and it nearly cost me. We're not that different, Duce. Maybe the neighborhood I grew up with was a little lacking in color, but from what I'm seeing, somebody needs to interject in your career. Kick some fucking sense into that thick, stubborn, Young Dolph bumping ass that thinks just being a violent brawler who poaches wins from weaker prey, but when an alpha predator shows his fangs, you shudder. You make excuses and turn a battle into something it isn't.
Kind of see why Biff's been using you for a fucking doormat. Sad part is...
You could be so...much...better. Once I realized that myself...sky was the limit.
It's you, Jones, that is enslaving yourself. You could be so much better than you are. And I, am going to make sure come Fight Night....
One way or another, you'll learn that lesson. You will be better than what you are, or you end up a picture on my wall. I'm here to free you from mediocrity. It's you that's stuck in the slave mentality. I don't just give things away; I make a motherfucker pay the blood price.
You exposed yourself, Duce. All you're seeing is black and white. All you're doing is making excuses and throwing marshmallows at a rampaging rhino for your failure to do what I do. The research, the promoting, the training. All I see is gold, green, and red. That's the Atlanta way. Maybe that's why your city's always second banana to us ATLiens.
Oh...
Tony grins, as the lights dip low...
I wouldn't worry about skin tone being an issue, even those it's been your only bullet in your gun. By the time I'm done with you...
Nobody's gonna tell what color you are...with all those fucking cuts and bruises you'll suffer, they won't recognize your skin tone.
(OOC: Word Count 1901. Thanks for making me work for it this week, Duce.)
Today's GCWA lens jockey is named Kenneth, and today, he received a special guided tour of Tony's permanent residence. Tony's wife fell in love with a grandiose Bordeaux style estate in Highland Park, outside of Dallas. High affluent doesn't do this neighborhood justice. Cowboys owner Jerry Jones and Mark Cuban own property in this posh little slice of the Lone Star state. Big money calls this community home.
It was obvious that Cassandra held sway over the decorating of their new multi-million dollar love nest; there were art pieces, flowers, and soft, warm fabrics and colors not typically associated with a snarly, hardened wrecking machine's habitat. But, he liked it, mostly because the Mrs. Dr. adored it. Hey, happy wife, happy life. Rightfully so, he let her hold sway over most of the house. But the east wing...
Different story. The place was a goddamned shrine to murder!
There were five more rooms which sported similarly frightening curio. Swords, spears, and other melee weapons were on display. Kenneth saw tribal war masks from places like East Africa and Mayan Mexico. A entire room was devoted to artifacts from various Savages through military conflicts. Fun fact, Young Kenneth learned from Tony, as they arrived in his office, and he pulled an old, worn officer's saber off the rack behind his desk.
Since 1861, at one point or another, every male Savage, and more than a handful of our women, have taken up arms in the service of our country. Every one. Hell, my brother Nate; his oldest shipped out for Marine boot camp in Pendelton just 3 weeks ago.
Wow. Every man?
Yeah, a lot of relics from generations of folk who do bad things for good reasons. Tony responds, unsheathing the blade and twirling it with almost automatic ease in his massive hand. In fact, this saber belong to Augustus Savage, a major in the Illinois militia during the Civil War. He got major heat from some of our kinfolk back in Georgia for taking up arms for the Yankees. Having a problem with people enslaving other people didn't sit well with some of our blood. Fought at Antietam in 1862. One of the worst slaughterhouses in American history. 33,000 dead or wounded. Can you imagine; wading through blood, piss, and shit in some god forsaken wet and cold bog? it didn't stop there. The Philippines, two world wars, Korea, 'Nam, Afghanistan and Iraq.
Pops always had this saying to us Savage kids, he said, putting the blade away.Blood is our family's currency. That's how we pay our way in the world. Put food on our table. Don't matter if it's the streets, a battlefield, or in a boardroom. To get what we wants, seems like we gotta get grimy.
There were more relics; pictures of Tony's days in other venues, hanging on the walls. Standing over Sean Fuller after a fight in a prison. Another one shows him soaking in cattle and human blood in 2017, defending his International strap against one of EWC's pet projects. Cages, taped fist fights, ladder matches. Some of those pics were from matches he lost. To Tony, it was important to show his resume, both good and bad.
People need to know what they're facing. And from Kenny gathered, from both this sobering museum and what he's seen so far from the wrestling Ronin...
This was not a man squeamish to suffer and inflict suffering to get what he wanted.
That last pic he scoped of Tony, wrapped in bandages, in a military hospital in Germany after nearly getting blow to bits outside Kabul, drove the point home.
Geez. You ever...ever think...if you had the choice...
I don't think that way. We all make choices.
A pause, then, Kenny asked this question: Heard you caught some flack for the "Duce has to work for you" stip. Some people think...
Yeah, I heard: mean ol' rich white dude trying to put the screws to poor minority. I love social media; Cassandra calls it an experiment in abnormal psychology and lack of critical thinking. Mumble Rapper had a choice. Guy could have easily told me to kick rocks with my deal. Could have told me to shove my arrogance and money up my ass. He didn't. He put his signature to it.
He made his choice. As a free willed, reasonably intelligent man. As did I, to put my money and reputation, possibly my life, at risk. Lot of people depending on me to pull this off. These faux "woke" motherfuckers are asleep at the wheel. People need to learn not to pull out the race card until they find out what the game is.
Tony seemed regretful, having to say that. He was the type of guy that only cared about results, not superficial shit like how much melanin is in skin cells. But people, they like crutches. Tony learned to toss his aside. It's one of the steps to building a legacy.
Surprised you're not in Vegas with most of the roster...
Been there enough, I don't need to do some cliched gambling metaphor shoot. Besides, considering the pot I pushed in, nobody on the roster's risking more than me. Except Duce, perhaps. Man, that guy has NO idea what I'm like in murder mode.
But he was impressed with how Jones was handling things. Duce had some grasp about the situation; this was one of the biggest, most pivotal moments in his life. A moment that could define his career. But the racism thing...
Tony was going to end that shit quick. An educator teaching a promising, but still, naive, rising mega-star, some things he had to learn himself the hard way.
Something confusing me, Jones. Maybe the education system in Memphis has some glaring flaws in it, or people distorting legal and historical facts with self interest and social justice warrior doublespeak is hot in Tennessee, but...
If I considered you field hand material, some poor boy from the streets to be exploited, then, why would a guy like me even bothered to communicate with you, let alone, offer you a chance to elevate from superstar to legend, huh? Why would I have given you your biggest moment in your GCWA career, the match of the night...
If I simply wanted to hold you in bondage, huh? C'mon, you're street, buddy, not stupid. You signed that deal. You saw that money and made the choice. I din't come out with a gun pointed to your head. Hell, that contract signing, I gave you all the respect and due in the world. As you deserved for your efforts. Now, what do I get from you in repayment...
Suddenly, fat Colin Kapernick comes out. Tsk. Very poor form, Duce. Expected something better from a champion that's busted his ass to get where he is.
Tony stops, and looks at a display case. He wipes a spot off the glass before his speech continues.
Funny thing is, Duce, you and I aren't so different. Just another hardass Southern man, a little gutter in his speech and demeanor, tearing ass up and down venues. Full of piss and vinegar, just gonna punch my way through every schmuck I come across. And it worked...
For awhile.
Then, I started to learn how the game is really played. The hard way. Somebody better than me at the time went out of their way to teach a painful message.After awhile, I got the point. After that..
He points around his home.
I got shit like this.
I'm starting to get this creeping feeling you're getting cold feet over this, huh? I wouldn't blame ya. If I found out I had to fight me, I'd be a little nervous, too. All that weak trash coming out of your mouth, mocking the moves I make, the racial shit...
Smokescreen. Conjecture to try to fool people into believing you're the hero, the reason you're now in this elevated position with one of the biggest hot lights flashing on you.
The ultimate game of death between rising star and established superstar. The highest stake table in the casino. And you, this is what comes out your mouth...
'Dis cracka ain't shit but mutahfuckin' Eli Whitney tryin' ta keep me down.
Fact: it was a few minutes of me coming out to make that offer that made this match blow up to the level that Barrows is advertising it. Fact; it was me that gave you an new level of shine, and a challenge nobody's given you in any of your feds. Fact: I've been outplaying you, out training you, out promoting...
And considering how a smart man like you degraded into turning a big money, resume building fight into a social issue...
Out MANNING you, you dumb motherfucker! Tony Savage has been BUILDING you up, putting you on a new pedestal. Not sure how a guy trying to help you be bigger than you are now is putting you under the yoke, considering...
YOU WERE THE MOTHERFUCKER THAT WAS ALL TOO EAGER TO SEAL THE DEAL ONCE THAT MONEY APPEARED IN YOUR VISION! AND NOW, YOU WANT TO PULL THAT SHIT WITH ME BECAUSE YOU FINALLY REALIZED YOU WERE IN A ROYAL SHIT-STORM NOW!!
His face reddens, veins bulge. Then, he frowns, shakes his head.
Worst part of it is, there was a couple of times in my career that I rolled like that, and it nearly cost me. We're not that different, Duce. Maybe the neighborhood I grew up with was a little lacking in color, but from what I'm seeing, somebody needs to interject in your career. Kick some fucking sense into that thick, stubborn, Young Dolph bumping ass that thinks just being a violent brawler who poaches wins from weaker prey, but when an alpha predator shows his fangs, you shudder. You make excuses and turn a battle into something it isn't.
Kind of see why Biff's been using you for a fucking doormat. Sad part is...
You could be so...much...better. Once I realized that myself...sky was the limit.
It's you, Jones, that is enslaving yourself. You could be so much better than you are. And I, am going to make sure come Fight Night....
One way or another, you'll learn that lesson. You will be better than what you are, or you end up a picture on my wall. I'm here to free you from mediocrity. It's you that's stuck in the slave mentality. I don't just give things away; I make a motherfucker pay the blood price.
You exposed yourself, Duce. All you're seeing is black and white. All you're doing is making excuses and throwing marshmallows at a rampaging rhino for your failure to do what I do. The research, the promoting, the training. All I see is gold, green, and red. That's the Atlanta way. Maybe that's why your city's always second banana to us ATLiens.
Oh...
Tony grins, as the lights dip low...
I wouldn't worry about skin tone being an issue, even those it's been your only bullet in your gun. By the time I'm done with you...
Nobody's gonna tell what color you are...with all those fucking cuts and bruises you'll suffer, they won't recognize your skin tone.
(OOC: Word Count 1901. Thanks for making me work for it this week, Duce.)
