Post by Eli Martin on May 17, 2020 15:24:43 GMT -5
THEN..
There was a lingering disappointment under the cloak of Eli Martin’s Champions hoodie, as he did not expect such a contest to be determined by such an odd and unprecedented result. A double knockout or double elimination he’s heard of, but a double victory?? That was a new one on him.
He just knew that the Accountant, being the opportunist that he is, was dying to use this as a means to further his hypothesis about being the superior athlete between the two of them. Eli rolled his eyes at the mere thought alone. Finding it nauseating.
The thin crisp air of Michigan pushed against him as he walked along the Ambassador Bridge, in hand, the Halliburton briefcase that almost sealed his fate earlier tonight. He was certain that son of a bitch had put down many foes with this briefcase, and Eli was determined not to become one himself. So he would accomplish what he felt needed to be done.
He lunges, sending the briefcase soaring across the night sky into the Detroit River. The case splashes, its density making haste its excursion to the bottom of the river; Eli inhales deeply, looking on as it does before paying it a ‘good riddance’ smirk and continuing his walk -- likely back to his hotel. If the Accountant was going to be declared the better man between the two of them, he was going to have to earn it.
NOW..
You’ve obviously taken one too many blows to the head in your career, you’re beginning to hallucinate, my friend. It’s arisen to a tier where even I am admittedly concerned.
You seem to have made quite the revisement to the details of Titans 83. Painting me, the honorable hero, as the deceitful coward who was so intimidated by the measure of your talent that I would have conceded to any decision made by the official so long as it meant I wouldn’t be compelled to shoot the fair one with the likes of you...when, that could not have been any further from the truth. Upon the realization of the verdict, I was baffled. Never had I anticipated such a bizarre ending to a Triple Threat Match and I wasn’t willing to accept it either. I entered Detroit that night set on emerging the undisputed victor, but alas, my time in the limelight had to be one I shared with the likes of you; and no matter how much I begged, how much I pleaded, the referee was unwilling to restart the match or at the very least let it continue until there was one decisive winner.
You see, that is what really happened..because it was through this distraction you would attempt to subject me to the same fate you brought on Jack Jones one week prior. You slithered behind me with the intent to lay me flat with that damn briefcase. Underestimating my ring awareness and feline-esque reflexes, you attacked, I evaded, and sent you hightailing it for the exit like the punk you are. I advise you to take another look at the footage before making an even bigger fool of yourself than you have with that failed assault.
For you to attest to anything different would be an insult to the intelligence of everyone with a functioning set of peepers, yourself included.
Let us delve in further into this match...evidently, you do some of your best work behind the backs of your unsuspecting victims, and when you had every opportunity to strike when I had Jamo’s legs bent into a pretzel, you turned it down by instead of attacking me obliged in his torture by wrangling him in for a crossface. Why? Why not eliminate me and claim the proverbial crown as the supreme submissionist? I’ll tell you…
‘Cause you really don’t want to tussle with me. I don’t know if you’re threatened or just flat out scared -- fearful that I’m going to dim your light, steal your fire, put you on the back burner; but it’s painfully obvious that you would much rather avoid me altogether than square off with me, mano-a-mano. I can't blame you. I do make for an impressive adversary. One that you evidently don’t want any smoke with. But you’re going to get it! All of it. The smoke AND the fire. With one fiery punch, watch as all of your hopes of becoming Hardcore Champion go up in smoke.
Granted, I never intended on participating in the Hardcore Division as I always saw myself as more of a tech-saavy, mat-based wrestler whose style would be best suited for the Intercontinental Division; but I can’t complain. Hardcore Wrestling, though always treated as a bottom rung division, is in truth one of the more difficult divisions to break ground in, especially if you’re a contradicting snob who undervalues and underestimates it. It’s in this division where some of the most passionate and albeit mentally unstable competitors dwell. They are prepared to storm out to that ring, risking life and limb performing death defying stunts to the awe and intrigue of the public. I admire that. I respect that because it wasn’t long ago that I did the same. Before going legit as a cage fighter, I fought my way through the underground territories of Chicago. There, a lot of illegal and unsanctioned fights took place; no holds barred. Weapons were encouraged and matches would not end until a guy went down. Although it’s responsible for a lot of my scars, I do not regret it one bit. It hardened me. Prepared me for the fights ahead. If I could survive twelve stitches to the lower lip then there’s very little I can’t handle.
That includes you, the delusional, weak willed coward who hides behind a briefcase. I hope you’ve enjoyed riding the coattails of my victories to absorb some prominence for yourself these past two weeks, because the ride ceases Tuesday; you’re going to wish you’d “taken that bus” when it was afforded to you.
