Promo Thread

Freak · November 2nd, 2009, 10:45 PM

Figured some people might have some stuff they want to post as they debut or whatever. I'm currently formatting my first promo for this shiny new fed...will be posted in moments.

Can use the "new fed" thread as banter as well I would think

Freak · November 2nd, 2009, 10:49 PM

Travis his hair has been cut short for the first time in ages formed into a faux hawk on the top of his head. He's unshaven a healthy stubble covers his cheeks turning them to sand paper. He's wearing a band hooded jacket a local band t shirt and a pair of trendy jeans. He's reclined in a chair his feet extended out in front of him. He looks into the camera without a smile without much emotion at all. He speaks in a meaningful low voice, enough to make you lean forward in your chair and listen to his every word...to hang on his every syllable.

“In fight club our generation is described as a generation without a great war. A generation of men raised by women. This stands no more true than here, in this wrestling world. Things used to be beautiful here, men climbing to the top, making enough money to set up their family for generations...now it's hard to put food on the table for yourself...much less a wife and kids...”

“This place is like an alcoholic father, for a while things are good, daddy starts to get clean and us kids begin to feel normal. We start to feel like finally things are looking up...but it's only a matter of time before he stumbles in at three AM smelling of cigarettes and scotch, and we kick him out, throw him to the curb and swear he's wasted his last chance.”

“But he comes back a few days later and he's gotten a hair cut and he's shaved and he cries for us and tells us he's finally learned and everything will be fine, and it feels so good to believe him. It feels so damn good to fall back into that little paradise for a while, and in that while we're happy, but somewhere in the back of your mind that little voice tells you it won't last.”

“and you know deep down you know that voice is right.”

“that voice is screaming at me now, it tells me that maybe it's time to find a real career. Maybe I could teach PE somewhere, or start writing music again, get away from the painted freaks and the fans screaming for blood.”

“I ask myself why I do this...this place is sure to crash like the ones before it, and I'll have nothing to show for it but a few more scars, a few more sleepless nights, all to end up sleeping in my car again...”

Travis looks down at his crooked fingers broken from years of doing this.

“This place isn't the cycling addict...I am.”

“I am and mth is, and Caito is. We simply cannot step away from this.”

Travis sits silent for a moment before standing and grabbing his gym bag full of his boots and his blood stained gear... he looks into the camera and smiles a smile we've seen so many times.

“Hello, my name is Travis...and I'm addicted this business.”

FADE

mth · November 4th, 2009, 7:41 PM

Darkness.
A flash of static.
Then darkness again, but now the darkness is pierced as a spotlight clicks on, casting a circle of light on the concrete floor.
A ragged and worn sketchbook basks in the glow before the light clicks off.
Another spotlight temporarily illuminates the shattered remains of the IRW Tag Team Championship.
A third momentary spotlight reveals a black and silver Hannibal Lector-like muzzle.
The next, the U*R*P World Heavyweight Championship.
The fifth clicks on over a tired old wheelchair.
The sixth over an issue of RWF magazine, its headline proclaiming “Brotherly Battle Blow Off: Travis Defeats mth!”
The seventh spotlight clicks on…
…revealing nothing but cold empty concrete.
It clicks off.
Darkness returns once more.

There is a brief burst of light, like the flash of a camera…and for a split second all these objects are illumined simultaneously, along with a seated figure reclining in a high backed throne…before all are plunged back into darkness.

He begins to laugh. A low chuckle at first, echoing off the cement walls. It builds and soon becomes a gleeful chortle.

The flash of light returns for another brief second, then again, then it begins to repeat as the room is bathed in a throbbing strobe light, and the seated figure is now illumined enough to become recognizable…
…it is mth.
A toothy grin stretches across his face which is engulfed in his trademark streaks, stripes, and spots of blue, black and yellow, curtained by long brown locks of hair.
He is clad in a shaggy and garish pink fur coat and black leather pants adorned with patches of dark gray camouflage and long brown tassels.
He sits comfortably in a tall and ornate throne-like black chair.
His laugh fades as he raises a hand from the arm of the chair and waves his fingers playfully in greeting, the strobe light making it seems as though he is moving in crude stop-frame animation,

“And there was evening and there was morning…
..and here we are.
A new chapter begins while the previous was still in mid-sentence.
But ah, isn’t that how it always is?
Isn’t that just how the novel that is my career seems to be written?
Every place I go it seems the curtain falls before the act is over.
And every new dawn becomes another pitch black night while I’m right in the middle of making magic happen.
There isn’t a single complete story in the life and times of mth.
It’s just a disjointed patchwork of incomplete parts.
And so, you take it as a whole, you take it as a collected volume, and what do you have?
The makings of a madman, perhaps?
The collected frustrations of a genius who’s talent, drive, and creative ideas have yet to be fully realized because every time it seems the ball gets rolling, every time he begins to get to work on what could be the most thrilling, terrifying, memorable event in this business…
….he gets cut off.
Cut short.
Shut down.
Denied.
And the question is…why?”

He strokes his bearded chin thoughtfully, a crooked smirk on his paint-laden face.

”I think the reason may be two-fold.
First, let’s take a look at the big cheese. All of them.
Every suit, every CEO, every yes man, every shareholder, everyone that’s behind the scenes, behind the curtain, pulling the strings, running the circus.
What you see are dreamers, each and every time.
Folks with visions.
But all I see is Frankenstein syndrome.
All I see are men who look to create the perfect being.
The ultimate wrestling organization that will trump the rest.
And so they begin to assemble the parts…
…collecting talent, piecing it together from new and old parts, even some dead careers…
…and then BZZRT! They bring it to life.
And they are shocked as they see their creation stir with life.
And soon, they shun and abhor it, abandoning their creation.
Leaving it confused, wandering, and alone…
…and eventually that spark of life fades and the cold embrace of the grave claims yet another failed experiment.
Another hopeful soul tries to revive the dead with a quick facelift and a pocket full of dreams, and the cycle continues and the stink of death remains fresh in the air.”

He hangs his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. Then he raises it, a broad smile stretched across it,

”And then there’s part two.
See, boys and girls, part two may very well be the truth.
These men of vision, these powers that be, they know that no über-fed is complete without The Galactic Jackalope.
They know that the real spark of life, that makes that sweet green lifeblood flow, is The Painted Prince of Pandemonium.
But the problem is, they reach out and I sign on the dotted line, but then…
…then they realize what they’ve got.
They realize what they’ve done.
And it’s too late.
Sure, ratings soar, PPV buyrates are through the roof, and merchandise is selling faster than its produced…
…but they realize that this spark of life, this livewire they’ve used to animate their creation….
…has made it a monster.
Because they’ve tried to put lightning in a bottle.
They’re tried to harness a whirlwind.
They thought they could keep a hurricane in their pocket,
But, baby, mth is forever unchained!”

He leaps up out of he chair, throwing his arms wide toward all the objects from his past sprawled through the room.

”Look at the past:
RVW wanted me out before I’d even unpacked my bags. Too hot to handle.
IRW knew The Effect would shakes things to their foundations, and perhaps we did, so much so they crumbled to dust.
RPW tried to keep me a sedated, muzzled puppy and then when they did unleash me, they shut down before I could reach the top.
ERW tried to repress me as best they could before they collapsed.
U*R*P at least recognized what they had on their hands and gave me my glory, but once I was their champion, they knew they were in too deep and pulled the plug.
And then RWF…the attempted and aborted resurrection…thought they could pacify me by giving me my brother one-on-one, and then when the flames died down, throw me a bone with the secondary title…but now fully ware they had a loaded weapon in their hands, myself the gun and Tusk the bullet…and so they closed up shop before the shot rang out.”

He gazes at the objects in the room, rubbing his hands together,

”Travis calls us addicts.
But I disagree.
Travis, I am not addicted to this business.
No, no, this….twisted dance…that we do is not my addiction, no…
….it is my oxygen.
I live and breath what we do.
This is my world and outside of it, I can only suffocate.
Outside of it, I am nothing, I cough and I sputter, and I wither and die.
Each time one of these companies closes its door, I walk out that exit and into the cold dark vacuum of space.
Perhaps you remember when brother Mike came a-calling?
The big shot lawyer looking to talk some sense into his zany little brother?
Perhaps, perhaps you remember the sweet, sweet sound of the U*R*P World Title ringing off his skull as I literally belted him to the floor?
I remember.
And I remember all the pats on the back, all the applause from my peers…
…for saying those words that they had always felt but had never spoken.
Outside of this world I am nothing but a fish out of water…
…gasping and flailing.
Inside of this world, I can deck myself out, paint myself up, slink around in the shadows causing mischief and mayhem, I can be as outlandish, outrageous, and out of my mind as I want to be…
…I can be mth.
I can be me.
But outside of this world.
Out there.
I am out of my element.
I am out of my comfort zone.
I am out in the cold.
I am out of the game and all I can do is crave another resurrection, yearn for, hope for, pray for another taste of the sweet nectar that gives my life purpose.
Each day out there is a day with a gun to my head and a trembling finger on the trigger.
This business is not my addiction.
This business is me and I am it and when we are torn apart, when each of these companies dies, a part of me dies as well.”

He surveys the room once more then eases back down into the throne,

”But each rebirth is a new experiment.
For them and for me.
Night is fading and a new sun is rising.
And here.
We.
Are.
A new federation as yet unnamed and as yet almost faceless, with only a handful of talent signed on, only in its beginning stages.
But ah, here I am.
The Spark of Life.
So, at least you know when this monster rises from the slab, it’ll keep you entertained in ways you’ve yet to even imagine.
Because this is a new beginning.
This is a rebirth.
And perhaps the cycle will prevail, and perhaps death is only a short distance away….and perhaps again, they will not be able to cope with The mth Experience…
…but with the ink still drying on the contract, the ride is mine to take.
And you bet your ssssssssssssssssssweet ass I’m going to milk this mother dry.
Because a man needs to breathe, and with death constantly staring him in the face, he’s going to savor every breath.
Out there, I am…we are…nothing.
In here we are champions, legends, gods.
Out there, I am no one.
In here, I am mth.
This business is more than just my oxygen, it is my prison.
But I love life behind its bars.
It’s all I care to know.”

He breathes in a slow, deep breath, exhaling it gradually as a smile begins to curve his lips.

”And so, to the nameless faceless figureheads of this new organization, now hear this:
I am mth and I have arrived.
Your creation is beginning to stir.
I hope you’re ready for what is to come…
…I know I am.”

He grins as a peal of laughter bubbles up from deep within. He throws his head back and cackles, before lowering it and saying in a near whisper,

”Believe.”

November 2nd, 2009, 10:45 PM	#1
Freak a dancing machine Join Date: May 2003 Location: Princeworld Posts: 3,431 Rep Power: 8080	Promo Thread Figured some people might have some stuff they want to post as they debut or whatever. I'm currently formatting my first promo for this shiny new fed...will be posted in moments. Can use the "new fed" thread as banter as well I would think Last edited by Freak; November 2nd, 2009 at 10:49 PM..

November 2nd, 2009, 10:49 PM	#2
Freak a dancing machine Join Date: May 2003 Location: Princeworld Posts: 3,431 Rep Power: 8080	Travis his hair has been cut short for the first time in ages formed into a faux hawk on the top of his head. He's unshaven a healthy stubble covers his cheeks turning them to sand paper. He's wearing a band hooded jacket a local band t shirt and a pair of trendy jeans. He's reclined in a chair his feet extended out in front of him. He looks into the camera without a smile without much emotion at all. He speaks in a meaningful low voice, enough to make you lean forward in your chair and listen to his every word...to hang on his every syllable. “In fight club our generation is described as a generation without a great war. A generation of men raised by women. This stands no more true than here, in this wrestling world. Things used to be beautiful here, men climbing to the top, making enough money to set up their family for generations...now it's hard to put food on the table for yourself...much less a wife and kids...” “This place is like an alcoholic father, for a while things are good, daddy starts to get clean and us kids begin to feel normal. We start to feel like finally things are looking up...but it's only a matter of time before he stumbles in at three AM smelling of cigarettes and scotch, and we kick him out, throw him to the curb and swear he's wasted his last chance.” “But he comes back a few days later and he's gotten a hair cut and he's shaved and he cries for us and tells us he's finally learned and everything will be fine, and it feels so good to believe him. It feels so damn good to fall back into that little paradise for a while, and in that while we're happy, but somewhere in the back of your mind that little voice tells you it won't last.” “and you know deep down you know that voice is right.” “that voice is screaming at me now, it tells me that maybe it's time to find a real career. Maybe I could teach PE somewhere, or start writing music again, get away from the painted freaks and the fans screaming for blood.” “I ask myself why I do this...this place is sure to crash like the ones before it, and I'll have nothing to show for it but a few more scars, a few more sleepless nights, all to end up sleeping in my car again...” Travis looks down at his crooked fingers broken from years of doing this. “This place isn't the cycling addict...I am.” “I am and mth is, and Caito is. We simply cannot step away from this.” Travis sits silent for a moment before standing and grabbing his gym bag full of his boots and his blood stained gear... he looks into the camera and smiles a smile we've seen so many times. “Hello, my name is Travis...and I'm addicted this business.” FADE __________________ Big props to MTH

November 4th, 2009, 7:41 PM	#3
mth DELUXE Boogeymod Join Date: Mar 2001 Location: Saskatoon, SK (originally Grand Rapids, MI) Posts: 35,996 Rep Power: 323172	Darkness. A flash of static. Then darkness again, but now the darkness is pierced as a spotlight clicks on, casting a circle of light on the concrete floor. A ragged and worn sketchbook basks in the glow before the light clicks off. Another spotlight temporarily illuminates the shattered remains of the IRW Tag Team Championship. A third momentary spotlight reveals a black and silver Hannibal Lector-like muzzle. The next, the URP World Heavyweight Championship. The fifth clicks on over a tired old wheelchair. The sixth over an issue of RWF magazine, its headline proclaiming “Brotherly Battle Blow Off: Travis Defeats mth!” The seventh spotlight clicks on… …revealing nothing but cold empty concrete. It clicks off. Darkness returns once more. There is a brief burst of light, like the flash of a camera…and for a split second all these objects are illumined simultaneously, along with a seated figure reclining in a high backed throne…before all are plunged back into darkness. He begins to laugh. A low chuckle at first, echoing off the cement walls. It builds and soon becomes a gleeful chortle. The flash of light returns for another brief second, then again, then it begins to repeat as the room is bathed in a throbbing strobe light, and the seated figure is now illumined enough to become recognizable… …it is mth. A toothy grin stretches across his face which is engulfed in his trademark streaks, stripes, and spots of blue, black and yellow, curtained by long brown locks of hair. He is clad in a shaggy and garish pink fur coat and black leather pants adorned with patches of dark gray camouflage and long brown tassels. He sits comfortably in a tall and ornate throne-like black chair. His laugh fades as he raises a hand from the arm of the chair and waves his fingers playfully in greeting, the strobe light making it seems as though he is moving in crude stop-frame animation, “And there was evening and there was morning… ..and here we are. A new chapter begins while the previous was still in mid-sentence. But ah, isn’t that how it always is? Isn’t that just how the novel that is my career seems to be written? Every place I go it seems the curtain falls before the act is over. And every new dawn becomes another pitch black night while I’m right in the middle of making magic happen. There isn’t a single complete story in the life and times of mth. It’s just a disjointed patchwork of incomplete parts. And so, you take it as a whole, you take it as a collected volume, and what do you have? The makings of a madman, perhaps? The collected frustrations of a genius who’s talent, drive, and creative ideas have yet to be fully realized because every time it seems the ball gets rolling, every time he begins to get to work on what could be the most thrilling, terrifying, memorable event in this business… ….he gets cut off. Cut short. Shut down. Denied. And the question is…why?” He strokes his bearded chin thoughtfully, a crooked smirk on his paint-laden face. ”I think the reason may be two-fold. First, let’s take a look at the big cheese. All of them. Every suit, every CEO, every yes man, every shareholder, everyone that’s behind the scenes, behind the curtain, pulling the strings, running the circus. What you see are dreamers, each and every time. Folks with visions. But all I see is Frankenstein syndrome. All I see are men who look to create the perfect being. The ultimate wrestling organization that will trump the rest. And so they begin to assemble the parts… …collecting talent, piecing it together from new and old parts, even some dead careers… …and then BZZRT! They bring it to life. And they are shocked as they see their creation stir with life. And soon, they shun and abhor it, abandoning their creation. Leaving it confused, wandering, and alone… …and eventually that spark of life fades and the cold embrace of the grave claims yet another failed experiment. Another hopeful soul tries to revive the dead with a quick facelift and a pocket full of dreams, and the cycle continues and the stink of death remains fresh in the air.” He hangs his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. Then he raises it, a broad smile stretched across it, ”And then there’s part two. See, boys and girls, part two may very well be the truth. These men of vision, these powers that be, they know that no über-fed is complete without The Galactic Jackalope. They know that the real spark of life, that makes that sweet green lifeblood flow, is The Painted Prince of Pandemonium. But the problem is, they reach out and I sign on the dotted line, but then… …then they realize what they’ve got. They realize what they’ve done. And it’s too late. Sure, ratings soar, PPV buyrates are through the roof, and merchandise is selling faster than its produced… …but they realize that this spark of life, this livewire they’ve used to animate their creation…. …has made it a monster. Because they’ve tried to put lightning in a bottle. They’re tried to harness a whirlwind. They thought they could keep a hurricane in their pocket, But, baby, mth is forever unchained!” He leaps up out of he chair, throwing his arms wide toward all the objects from his past sprawled through the room. ”Look at the past: RVW wanted me out before I’d even unpacked my bags. Too hot to handle. IRW knew The Effect would shakes things to their foundations, and perhaps we did, so much so they crumbled to dust. RPW tried to keep me a sedated, muzzled puppy and then when they did unleash me, they shut down before I could reach the top. ERW tried to repress me as best they could before they collapsed. URP at least recognized what they had on their hands and gave me my glory, but once I was their champion, they knew they were in too deep and pulled the plug. And then RWF…the attempted and aborted resurrection…thought they could pacify me by giving me my brother one-on-one, and then when the flames died down, throw me a bone with the secondary title…but now fully ware they had a loaded weapon in their hands, myself the gun and Tusk the bullet…and so they closed up shop before the shot rang out.” He gazes at the objects in the room, rubbing his hands together, ”Travis calls us addicts. But I disagree. Travis, I am not addicted to this business. No, no, this….twisted dance…that we do is not my addiction, no… ….it is my oxygen. I live and breath what we do. This is my world and outside of it, I can only suffocate. Outside of it, I am nothing, I cough and I sputter, and I wither and die. Each time one of these companies closes its door, I walk out that exit and into the cold dark vacuum of space. Perhaps you remember when brother Mike came a-calling? The big shot lawyer looking to talk some sense into his zany little brother? Perhaps, perhaps you remember the sweet, sweet sound of the URP World Title ringing off his skull as I literally belted him to the floor? I remember. And I remember all the pats on the back, all the applause from my peers… …for saying those words that they had always felt but had never spoken. Outside of this world I am nothing but a fish out of water… …gasping and flailing. Inside of this world, I can deck myself out, paint myself up, slink around in the shadows causing mischief and mayhem, I can be as outlandish, outrageous, and out of my mind as I want to be… …I can be mth. I can be me. But outside of this world. Out there. I am out of my element. I am out of my comfort zone. I am out in the cold. I am out of the game and all I can do is crave another resurrection, yearn for, hope for, pray for another taste of the sweet nectar that gives my life purpose. Each day out there is a day with a gun to my head and a trembling finger on the trigger. This business is not my addiction. This business is me and I am it and when we are torn apart, when each of these companies dies, a part of me dies as well.” He surveys the room once more then eases back down into the throne, ”But each rebirth is a new experiment. For them and for me. Night is fading and a new sun is rising. And here. We. Are. A new federation as yet unnamed and as yet almost faceless, with only a handful of talent signed on, only in its beginning stages. But ah, here I am. The Spark of Life. So, at least you know when this monster rises from the slab, it’ll keep you entertained in ways you’ve yet to even imagine. Because this is a new beginning. This is a rebirth. And perhaps the cycle will prevail, and perhaps death is only a short distance away….and perhaps again, they will not be able to cope with The mth Experience… …but with the ink still drying on the contract, the ride is mine to take. And you bet your ssssssssssssssssssweet ass I’m going to milk this mother dry. Because a man needs to breathe, and with death constantly staring him in the face, he’s going to savor every breath. Out there, I am…we are…nothing. In here we are champions, legends, gods. Out there, I am no one. In here, I am mth. This business is more than just my oxygen, it is my prison. But I love life behind its bars. It’s all I care to know.” He breathes in a slow, deep breath, exhaling it gradually as a smile begins to curve his lips. ”And so, to the nameless faceless figureheads of this new organization, now hear this: I am mth and I have arrived. Your creation is beginning to stir. I hope you’re ready for what is to come… …I know I am.” He grins as a peal of laughter bubbles up from deep within. He throws his head back and cackles, before lowering it and saying in a near whisper, ”Believe.”

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