Post by Frankie Cocheese on May 14, 2016 18:03:55 GMT -6
Nikki Venom is being stomped out by CC in slow motion while the voices in the video above play.
The hum of fluorescent light tubes humming overhead as the scene opens up to what looks like a cold meat locker with walls lightly covered in frost. The camera pans backward, moving down the meat locker to show lines of dead cow meat butchered and hung up on their hind legs, hooked to railings that line the ceilings. Grunting can be heard and the camera swings around now to show Frankie and Barrel standing at the end of the meat locker. They are dressed in black Adidas tracksuits with black sneakers on their feet and beanies on their head with the Capital Crew logo on them. The grunting comes from Barrel as he throws rights and lefts at a swinging piece of dead cow, treating it like a sandbag.
Frankie rubs his hands together, eyes on the camera while Barrel keeps his on the meat with a determination like it is a tied up Silas Romero. “Look at this guy, Barrel. Nikki Venom’s trying to flood the market with videos, huh? Nikki Venom’s trying to flood the market with content and trying to get the people on his side because he thinks that’s going to motivate him to win, right?” Frankie chuckles, “That’s funny. Nikki, your efforts are in vain. Be real, you know you’ve got no one on your side because you’ve been shitting on all of them for the past few weeks now; Debauchee, Badger, Tevolo, who else?” Frankie looks over his shoulder at Barrel who shrugs before throwing a right hook at the meat, grunting. Frankie shrugs as well continuing, “Frank Washington, Drew Stevenson by continuing a joke that me and my people made up in the first place, Mark Storm, Silas Romero.” When Frankie says that last name, Barrel growls, throwing a haymaker at the meat, nearly sending it flying off of its hooks. Frankie’s eyes go wide. He laughs, “Woah now. Easy tiger!”
Barrel moves to grab the swinging dead cow with his large arms, trying to steady it so he can continue his training session.
“So you can flood the market and try to get the people on your side but face it, Nikki, no one likes you, and you haven’t given them a reason to. See, the difference between you and me, is that the people don’t like me, but I don’t give a shit, while you sit there and preach that you’re doing things for the people, fighting for the people, we all know you’re fighting for validity in this company and to feed your own ego. And that is the cold.” Right after he says cold, the camera shows a piece of cow meat dangling with blood slowly leaking from it.
“Hard.” Right after his voice is heard saying hard, it cuts to Barrel swinging one of his mighty fists, colliding it into a piece of meat.
The camera focuses on his lips as he says “Truth.” He looks over his shoulder at Barrel now. “He did indeed flood the market, didn’t he? Boy, we’ve got a lot to address this week, huh? I’m sure he won’t stop but you know what? Neither will I.” Frankie returns his mug to the camera with a smile widening on his lips. “So much to address. First, let’s address what I just spoke on, making up children to feed his ego. He’s got some little child and some afghan woman hanging around him, and this bitch in the afghan has the nerve to ask me if I reeeeeally wanna know who they are and how they’ve placed clues and shit. The short of it? No. I don’t want to know because frankly, I don’t care. No one cares and they’ve never cared. Nikki you’ve had these women come out of the blue, with no explanation, confusing everyone until I called attention to it and now that they want to explain, it’s falling on deaf ears because nobody cares anymore and that’s the cold.” *Meat cut*
“Hard.” *Fist cut*
“Truth.” *Mouth cut, cut to Cocheese.*
“Oh I’m just halfway there now, Nikki. Trust me, there’s a lot more coming though.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit now, dipping his head back for a moment, looking very relaxed. “Ahhh… so yeah, you’ve rubbed everyone wrong, and took shots at them but most importantly, you took shots at me and my crew. Something that you’ve admitted to doing. See that’s what gets me. You admitted that you took shots at me and my crew, and then go on to wonder why I attacked you and make up excuses for why I did, and excuses for why I didn’t explain in my last video. I gotta say, Nikki… You’re a fish out of water because you’re aiming your sights too high and flip flopping like one.”
At this moment, growling is heard as Barrel starts gnawing on the piece of meat.
“What are you DOING, big man? You can’t just eat everything in sight!”
“You wanna bet?”
“You’re gonna catch salmonella!”
“I don’t care! I’ll eat them all! Sal Monella, Salman Van Dam. Shit, I already ate Silas’ wife!”
“There’s too many S’s in this conversation.”
“Yeah, this isn’t Literary.”
“What?”
“You know. Sal Said Sorry while Singing Showtunes?”
“Oh. Like Nikki Needs Nourishment Nightly because No one gives Nikki capital Notes?”
“Somethin like that.”
“Right, anyway. It doesn’t stop there, Nikki. The flip-flopping doesn’t stop there because at first you had this little girl tell you that you respect IC3 as the owner and then what do you do next time but talk about how his titles are worthless, shit on his talent and then shit on the wrestling business as a whole by saying it’s nothing but something for scene kids to watch on weekends when their parents let them hang out. If you really respected IC3 as much as you say, you wouldn’t have staged a boycott and walked out on his company. You wouldn’t be talking about his belts as if they’re a plague you’re trying to avoid and shitting all over everyone who holds them. You can say I’m bringing up titles like the Hardcore title up and it has nothing to do with anything but the fact of the matter is if you respected this company and respected IC3 like you say you do, you wouldn’t be saying all of that shit, moron, and that’s the cold.” *Meat cut*
“Hard.” *Fist cut*
“Truth.” *Mouth cut. Cocheese cut.*
His face starts to redden. Could it be because this meat locker is too cold, or his anger is rising? “Am I talkin too long, Barrel?” Barrel shrugs his shoulders, seeming disinterested. “Am I talking too long like a run-on sentence? Do you want me to verbally communicate my periods and commas, Nikki? Last I checked I wasn’t writing an english paper. I’m cutting a fucking promo.” Frankie rolls his eyes now, taking his hands out of his tracksuit pockets. “Again, the difference between you and me. See, Barrel and I can say we don’t need these titles, but we won’t go on about how they’re dirty. We don’t need them because we can establish ourselves without them. We’ve got enough respect for this company to leave our lucrative contracts in Mexico to come compete here. Yes, I got a sweeter contract and nobody but myself, the crew and IC3 knows what's in it but I didn’t have to do this. I don’t have to be here. You have to. You want to attack guys like Drew Stevenson for bragging about his title reigns but you don’t need to. Maybe it’s because you don’t have any? I really don’t know, or care. You want to fight for the people, the people that see whatever stupid vision you’ve got. The same people you called ingrates. You don’t know who shat in my cereal, while a few moments before hand you make mention that you talked shit on me. Seems like the shit in my cereal smells like Venom. I attacked you because you talked shit. Talk shit, get hit. I thought I made that clear to you by now. I heard Alex Bradford talked shit and now he’s gone. I don’t know nothing about that, though. Heh heh. You’ll attack how I got into the title scene, painting yourself as a saint that doesn’t need to cheat while you’ll bully an inexperienced referee in your match with Jorge Santos. You’re a flip flopper. If you didn’t need the girls to talk for you, you wouldn’t have them in the first place. The Crew doesn’t need to talk for me, but I have them for camera time and because unlike the people you made up in your head, they matter to the company and that’s the cold.” *Meat cut.*
“Hard.” *Fist cut.*
“Truth.” *Mouth cut. Cocheese cut.* “See you when I see you.”
Fade.