'Not an Inch of What I Am' | Extreme |

[Emmett Murdock]

DefiningPureGold                                   Action                                     Quote to reply                                     Edit                                     Delete                                     Move                                     Lock                                     Stick                                     Ban IP                                     Ban email                                     Ban user                              Share to:       PM Subscribe Thread Rank：Rookie Score：10 Posts：7 From：USA  Register：03-03-2009 12:55 AM IP：69.231.123.9 Date Posted：01-13-2010 10:45 PMCopy HTML out of character: I couldn't stick with one post, but yeah bad timing. 'Been at the docks on the first half of the day and had to work on another post. But nonetheless, I can't let you guys down. The Prime Cut: Emmett Kirk Murdock Junior. Who? Perfect everything. A quintessence of predestined excellence. The kid with a thick hand without the bland. Even Metaphors impressed on him. He has the looks, the "it" factor, and the prominent potential to be one of the best to ever step foot in the ring and grace it whilst doing so. His background in Louisiana may not be exactly filled with luxury and the common man's routine, but he survived in the bayou when there were days and countless hours in which food wasn't put on the table. Murdock Jr. has confronted famine in more than one circumstance but never starved for anything he couldn't have. A Rottweiler may have ripped his sneakers apart when he was a kid, but that didn't impede him from walking out of his house or bringing food to his plate. He would go on long trips away from home but he wouldn't let natural disasters put him in a bench. He walked. His purpose was stringent and bulletproof. His mindset was chiseled out of undying steel. Murdock Jr. was a modern day Superman, bar the kryptonite. His grit in professional wrestling was ever so luminous. Training in PWA signified future success, and surviving in PWA meant that he could subsist in just about any obstacle that could storm through his way. Murdock Jr. may have not become a boxer like his father told him one day, but he did become a bloodthirsty fighter. He was an Extremist—thee Extremist because of his extreme measures. Hardy was the daredevil, Mick Foley was a hardcore Jimmy Snuka, but Murdock Jr. — he was apt to embody a new definition to Extreme as the walking guillotine that decapitated its forefathers and prophets. Beginning with -- The Sandman. ――――――――――― Back in the R&R Sportsplex, the scene sporadically blurred in from the black abyss of nothing, given the audience a palpable sight of haze. The vision through the lenses may have not have had clarity in its instigation but it was going there at leisure pace. Smoke was eventually visible in its blue hue — it was the cause in which the scene was so hard to see in the black room. White lights were turned on in a short wait, with an overpowering scenery of a transgressor and negative morality. There he stood with his back turned on the cameras —  The Sandman. However, he didn't look as wrinkled as he would for his age, let alone that bald for that matter. His black levis were perfectly tight for his size, he sported his antique WWE Sandman tee shirt and one hand he held that unopened can of frosty Budweiser while in the other — he had a tight grip on the base of the Singapore cane that rested over his shoulder and against his neck. "Enter Sandman" by Metallica had boomed on the arena from the Public Address system and the SEF devotees were riotous with approval to one of their fan favorites. It was a calamity where most would do an Exodus from their seats to the backstage area to drink and feast with the Sandman. He slanted his head erratically left, moving to the rhythm of Metallica's drumming and guitar rifts. The trivial dance would come to an end where he would pause for a brief minute to light up one of the Camel cigarettes. He smoked away like a rebel without a cause. He turned around though, and at a slow dramatic pace where he exposed his face to the public just to retrieve a universal gathering of jeers. It all went to hell from that point on. This Sandman happened to have a blonde wig with a rubber material to match his skin tone on his forehead. It was also plastered by his jaw and cheekbones to have an equivalent and almost identical look to the Sandman. It was plastic surgery without the need of the blades -- he was masquerading. The tattoos themselves were ersatz given that their origin traced from being nothing but stickers off a slot machine in Texas from a Shakey's. The Sand-straightener: "Whut? Whut? I said, WHUT?" The Sandman that hit the fountain of youth with an ample amount of plastic surgery cackled. It was bizarre; his fake dizzy drunk stance was acceptable - almost Sandman-esque. "SMOKY! Where art thou? I need my beer, I need more beer. I need a twenty-four pack to drink and drink and drink more until I am so out of my mind that I won't know what I am doing. Hell, I don't know what I am saying right now..no... now. I'm stuttering like a Hyenna, compadre! But I'll stop, Wow, wow, wow.. I guess I did it again like Britney, haha!" Out from the blue, The Sandman spat his cigarette onto the white tiled floor and instigated with a Boogeyman dance. "Yeah baby! I am a role model to every single drop out that there is in Texas. I am an icon to all of those that need to hide behind some kind of weapon to be a man! I am the paradigm of what it's like to be worth a dime when it comes to authentic wrestling talent. I embody what every Texan that sits in their couch, drinking forties and watch UFC on Television instead of building a life. I am not the American Dream, I am the Nightmare! I talk about SyFy and that isn't even a network! SciFi oh duh! I am an intoxicated man with no overall impeccable judgment of who Emmett Murdock is, but I'll go ahead and underestimate the rookie like if I have seen him before. In the meantime, why not drink more, smoke more, kill myself more and waste my time again—because I am foreseeable like lined paper and will meet a Straight End by not calculating Murdock." His accent had rapidly changed from a false shitfaced redneck to the emitted Cajun brogue that Lousiana's own Emmett Murdock had. It was then that he took his thick hands and pressed them against the rubber material that was pasted onto his skin and ripped it out. The Straightener: "You see Sandman, that entire Sandman persona is a joke. You're letting age and all those dead brain cells affect your performance. You don't want to accept the bona fide truth, and that is —you're not even near my league. Reflect on what you said on your interview, and ponder on it good. Do you really know me? I'm not the common green leaf that you will find lying around in a park, and I am not just all talk like you proclaim me to be. Sandman, anyone can pull off your unconventional behavior. They don't have to be blonde like you or be a redneck with no good prosperity in life. They just have to be — pathetic. And I bet you know where all those people that want to be you are now. Yeah, they are all locked inside cells dying for a smoke or a taste of beer. You are proud of your arrest record, even though that is something not many would be proud of considering it denotes failure to behave properly. It elucidates a loser who can't do things good. So I bet when you refer to those that say they want to be you, they're your cell buddies and those transgressors out there that can't even get a job at a local Taco Bell." He hoisted the Singapore upward and by his nose in preparation for something. The Straightener: "What makes you special? A Singapore cane, beer, and cigarettes? Ha, if you think I'm all talk, I wouldn't have done any of what you do on a daily basis. But I'm missing one thing out of your agenda." He took the Singapore cane and swung it against his forehead repeatedly. The impact rung on his head and then there was a cut on his scalp where blood began to flow out of. "I'm all talk am I? I'm a pretty face in this arena, but I'm not just about how impressive I look when I am taking control of the match like a bull and taming my opponent down. Sure you're back but in days of today I look better than you in High Definition, but no. I am about extreme measures, Sandman. I am about escalading to the very top of the business by setting stepping stones along the way with the curvature that points up. You're the first step evidently, even if you are negligent to accept the general consensus most of the real wrestling fans have made. That consensus is that the Sandman, will be outfoxed by what he misjudges as a rookie who hasn't been at the cusp of being a Heavyweight Champion. I have held a heavyweight title on my own pace where I began, but I don't stick to the past. I move in the present to cement a future. It is a future where Emmett Murdock will not dare to ask of who came before him as champion, but who else will kneel before his excellence. If I have to go through you Sandman to obtain that goal, don't mistrust the impetus that I will create to be the Sandman of this match to put you in deep sleep. That's a knock out if you didn't get it the first time, slowpoke." His hand was stroked against the flowing blood on his forehead, but he didn't feel ashamed. Murdock rejoiced his bloody moment like Ric Flair did with his Heavyweight Championship. The Straightener: "Sure you wrestled in many companies, but you aren't as valued as you were for ECW. ECW made you. You have coexisted with that implication for the rest of your career as a professional wrestler. Otherwise, nobody will know or clap a thousand times for the Sandman. Unlike you Sandlot, I will make myself. I will not resort to your ways even though that's what I call the effortless refuge to those that can't make it in life with sheer golden success. You are an old page in the wrestling book, and I will rip you out of it so I can make mines in the SEF. But you're up in the clouds about being SEF World Heavyweight Champion that you don't see the panorama. You are bombastic with your win and your ECW, which makes it better for me. You're a bird with wings on that, but be sure that I will cut them and when you realize that you're in a cesspool of your own blood. That the arena itself is in a standstill and that you've just woken up from a black out, you will then know that everything you worked for—everything you are, doesn't measure to even an inch of what I am. " Murdock picked up a beer can that he had prepared on the ground for this moment and lifted it up against his wound. He didn't blink as he smashed it against his head sporadically and rapidly. Blood mixed with beer drops rained on the floor until Emmett had put the act aside. The Straightener: "I can do anything you can, but I have a question oh Sandman? Can you walk on a straight line?" ... I think not. The Straightener: "I know you can't pass even that simple task, but don't worry, I'm not exactly all straight like I'm painted to be. Sure I am a stud, but when it comes to potency and unlocked potential — I am from unparalleled boulevard. Because I am The Straightener..." Murdock chuckled momentarily to ventilate that humor in anticipation to finishing a signature statement the Sandman notoriously uttered when he finished. The Verbal Low Blow, if you can call it that. "...and I approve this message." Emmett stepped on the beer can he dropped previously to pick up the Singapore cane he brought and swing it at the cameramen. The scene faded in an assault — an extreme assault at that. Murdock was bellicose and apt for the hardcore match as much as the Sandman. But he wasn't going to get on the bad start. In lieu, it would be Sandman getting that. ――――――――――-----------------------------------