Post by Deleted on Apr 14, 2014 15:24:42 GMT -6
SINGLES MATCH - Quarter Final (3)
Johnny B. Vs Mike Harrison
Bonecrusher advanced after a huge win against Johnny St. Tuck and Harrison picked up a win over Ian Windermear which brings us to the quarter finals where these two will square off. The winner of this match will advance to the Semi-Finals to take on the winner of the Smart/Ward/Banks triple threat.
Well, so far, so good for The Johnny, huh? Already in the quarter finals to crown the first-ever MSW Champion, the Pre-Millennium Wrestler's on quite the roll after ending the life of -redacted- St. Tuck, who can now never again refer to himself as -redacted-. That will go over well for sure. But now it's time to take it to a level where everyone's money has the Queen on it, because this week it's JBC vrs. BMH. The "B" stands for "British", otherwise it just wouldn't flow too well. And did you ever wonder why it's acronymed out as "JBC", even though "Bonecrusher" is clearly one word? How did that even come to pass? That's dumb.
So our scene begins - as scenes are wont to do - in front of the closest British Embassy building The Johnny could find in the great state of Missouri. This promotion still originates in Missouri, right? Anyway, the man in question stands in front of - oh wait, we already said that. No, really, there's such a place in Missouri, check it out! The address is:
British Consulate in St. Louis, the United States,
2323 Manor Grove Drive #8,
Chesterfield, Missouri,
63017 United States
Call them! Call them if you think I'm lying, asshole! The number's (+1) (636)-227-1334. Ask 'em if they saw the one and only Johnny B. there, shithead! SO ANYWAY, he's legit there, standing outside with a Slurpee in his hands, leaning up against the building. He takes a sip before speaking.
Johnny B.: "What's good, Saint Loo-ee? It's ya boy, J to the B to the mutha-mutha C, trick son! Who the fuck talks like that? It's me, Johnny B., fresh off a win against St. F***. Now... now there is only one Johnny up in this piece! The Johnimant Species, son! Right hurr. Right hurr."
He takes another sip of his Slurpee, or Squishee or Slushie or whatever, if there's no 7-11s in Missouri, or if it's not legally kosher to name-drop on products in the MSW. He gets a bit annoyed, because he got a mouthful of that syrupy liquid, and now he knows, even when it defrosts a bit, it'll never be as flavourful as it once was.
Johnny B.: "You know, it's about this time that I need to get everyone's favourite catchphrase out of the way: let me make one thing perfectly clear!"
Someone walks out of the building and confronts Johnny.
Some Guy But Not the Same Some Guy From His Debut Vignette: "Excuse me, sir, could you please keep it down if you insist on standing there?"
The Johnny looks the guy up and down, almost dropping his frozen beverage in incredulous appall-ation, which isn't a real word, but darn it, it should be.
Johnny B.: "You know... it's taking me every ounce of my willpower to not exclaim Shia LaBeouf-ly to you, asking you if you don't you know who I am... But really, I'm more shocked that someone working in a British Embassy doesn't have a British accent!"
Some Guy But Not the Same Some Guy From His Debut Vignette: "Well, this still is Missouri. Say, aren't you the guy from Staind?"
Johnny nearly squeezes the cup just enough that the lid pops off.
Johnny B.: "You're lucky I'm a Canadian and don't roll with no guns, bitch! Be gone witcho fake-ass British self!"
The guy senses the rising rage levels in the air and makes himself scarce. Johnny glares towards the door for a while longer before turning back to the camera.
Johnny B.: "Now... God dammit... where was I... I think I was trying to make myself clear, but the moment's passed.
This week, my opponent is a fellow wrasslin' vet named 'Lionheart' Mike Harrison. He's this dude from England, and he's been... okay, yeah yeah, he's been doing good for himself in this tournament, I won't lie. I mean, he's in the quarter finals, after all, right?"
He nods before taking another sip from his drink. He puts the lid back on properly and shakes the contents of the cup around a bit.
Johnny B.: "Thus far, I've taken out a bohunk, I've taken out a wannabe Johnnabe, and it looks like next on my Violence Agenda, something I've just invented this second, kinda like that one wrestler in that one wrestling promotion's thing he may or may not have called the 'House of Pain'. So while it's not technically copyrighted just yet, it still clearly is my intellectual property, and this video shall hereby act as proof as to the date and time of its origin.
Mike Harrison, you might have the heart of a lion, and while that's cool and all, The Johnny over here's got the eye of the tiger, and we all know that tigers outrank lions. That's right, I'm flat-out making that proclamation right here and now! The eye of the tiger's got like, f***in', like, laser eyes and shit, and they target lion hearts specifically, and when that laser hits that heart, BOOM, son! BOOM. That heart's not even there anymore! If you wanted to beat my eyes of the tiger, because I've got two of 'em, you see, anyway, if you wanted to beat them, shit, you should've said that you had the heart of a blue whale! Dem shits the size of a f***in' car! Tiger lasers can't penetrate dat! But nope, it's already been established that you're 'The Lionheart', so tough luck, buster."
He gives two fingers British-style, extra tartar sauce, slathered in malt vinegar.
Johnny B.: "But in all seriousness, finally, man... finally! Someone who I can gab about the 'good ol' days' of professional wrasslin' with! I-I mean, I won't, but I could if I wanted to, and that's gotta count for something! Harrison, for real reals, I'm expecting big things from you! I'm expecting a right proper slap-up British thrashing from your end! I swear to God, Harrison, I swear to f***ing God if you don't bring the UKarnage, I'm gonna be shipping you back to Angland in 37 different boxes, trick! I've watched enough British gangster flicks to know what could be, and so if I get Godfather when I'm expecting Rocknrolla, then you're done, son! You'd have blown it. You wouldn't have hacked it. I wanna be a real Rocknrolla, Harrison, and by f***, it's gonna happen with your help or not!"
After an exhausting diatribe, he takes several sips from his slushed cupped liquid, pauses, and moments later his face is transfixed into a visage of pure anguish. He pinches both sides of the bridge of his nose and grits his teeth. After a few more moments, his expression softens and he exhales in relief.
Johnny B.: "Brain freeze..."
And with that, he starts to walk away from the scene, looking at the camera warily all the while.
Johnny B.: "What's good, Saint Loo-ee? It's ya boy, J to the B to the mutha-mutha C, trick son! Who the fuck talks like that? It's me, Johnny B., fresh off a win against St. F***. Now... now there is only one Johnny up in this piece! The Johnimant Species, son! Right hurr. Right hurr."
He takes another sip of his Slurpee, or Squishee or Slushie or whatever, if there's no 7-11s in Missouri, or if it's not legally kosher to name-drop on products in the MSW. He gets a bit annoyed, because he got a mouthful of that syrupy liquid, and now he knows, even when it defrosts a bit, it'll never be as flavourful as it once was.
Johnny B.: "You know, it's about this time that I need to get everyone's favourite catchphrase out of the way: let me make one thing perfectly clear!"
Someone walks out of the building and confronts Johnny.
Some Guy But Not the Same Some Guy From His Debut Vignette: "Excuse me, sir, could you please keep it down if you insist on standing there?"
The Johnny looks the guy up and down, almost dropping his frozen beverage in incredulous appall-ation, which isn't a real word, but darn it, it should be.
Johnny B.: "You know... it's taking me every ounce of my willpower to not exclaim Shia LaBeouf-ly to you, asking you if you don't you know who I am... But really, I'm more shocked that someone working in a British Embassy doesn't have a British accent!"
Some Guy But Not the Same Some Guy From His Debut Vignette: "Well, this still is Missouri. Say, aren't you the guy from Staind?"
Johnny nearly squeezes the cup just enough that the lid pops off.
Johnny B.: "You're lucky I'm a Canadian and don't roll with no guns, bitch! Be gone witcho fake-ass British self!"
The guy senses the rising rage levels in the air and makes himself scarce. Johnny glares towards the door for a while longer before turning back to the camera.
Johnny B.: "Now... God dammit... where was I... I think I was trying to make myself clear, but the moment's passed.
This week, my opponent is a fellow wrasslin' vet named 'Lionheart' Mike Harrison. He's this dude from England, and he's been... okay, yeah yeah, he's been doing good for himself in this tournament, I won't lie. I mean, he's in the quarter finals, after all, right?"
He nods before taking another sip from his drink. He puts the lid back on properly and shakes the contents of the cup around a bit.
Johnny B.: "Thus far, I've taken out a bohunk, I've taken out a wannabe Johnnabe, and it looks like next on my Violence Agenda, something I've just invented this second, kinda like that one wrestler in that one wrestling promotion's thing he may or may not have called the 'House of Pain'. So while it's not technically copyrighted just yet, it still clearly is my intellectual property, and this video shall hereby act as proof as to the date and time of its origin.
Mike Harrison, you might have the heart of a lion, and while that's cool and all, The Johnny over here's got the eye of the tiger, and we all know that tigers outrank lions. That's right, I'm flat-out making that proclamation right here and now! The eye of the tiger's got like, f***in', like, laser eyes and shit, and they target lion hearts specifically, and when that laser hits that heart, BOOM, son! BOOM. That heart's not even there anymore! If you wanted to beat my eyes of the tiger, because I've got two of 'em, you see, anyway, if you wanted to beat them, shit, you should've said that you had the heart of a blue whale! Dem shits the size of a f***in' car! Tiger lasers can't penetrate dat! But nope, it's already been established that you're 'The Lionheart', so tough luck, buster."
He gives two fingers British-style, extra tartar sauce, slathered in malt vinegar.
Johnny B.: "But in all seriousness, finally, man... finally! Someone who I can gab about the 'good ol' days' of professional wrasslin' with! I-I mean, I won't, but I could if I wanted to, and that's gotta count for something! Harrison, for real reals, I'm expecting big things from you! I'm expecting a right proper slap-up British thrashing from your end! I swear to God, Harrison, I swear to f***ing God if you don't bring the UKarnage, I'm gonna be shipping you back to Angland in 37 different boxes, trick! I've watched enough British gangster flicks to know what could be, and so if I get Godfather when I'm expecting Rocknrolla, then you're done, son! You'd have blown it. You wouldn't have hacked it. I wanna be a real Rocknrolla, Harrison, and by f***, it's gonna happen with your help or not!"
After an exhausting diatribe, he takes several sips from his slushed cupped liquid, pauses, and moments later his face is transfixed into a visage of pure anguish. He pinches both sides of the bridge of his nose and grits his teeth. After a few more moments, his expression softens and he exhales in relief.
Johnny B.: "Brain freeze..."
And with that, he starts to walk away from the scene, looking at the camera warily all the while.