Post by Gensai on Oct 14, 2018 10:09:21 GMT -5
We find ourselves outside Yamato Athletic Plaza in bustling Fukuoka, Japan
One of the metal double doors leading out of one side of the large athletics complex clatters open, slamming back against the wall before slowly closing itself. Through the doorway a largish figure clad in a white and gold tracksuit saunters out onto the public sidewalk. As the figure approaches we can see clearly now who this is. The Pale General, the Ghost Go Gensai plops himself on the wall of a large planter outside the arena. He looks back at the Yamato Athletic Plaza with a strange little smile on his mostly placid face.
He looks down suddenly at his sleeve… where not a small amount of what looks to be blood staining the pale white fabric of his tracksuit jacket. He narrows his eyes and purses his lips slightly as he surveys the stains.
He spies more down one of the legs of his pants. He shakes his head and tisks softly.
“Serious Seville.“
That funny little smile starts to fade as he speaks. Raspy broken English.
“Big monsters and famous stars from the west, they have their place here now and again. They come in… draw a big crowd. Then the real wrestlers steal the show. The westerners are… puppets. Tools. A means to an end. How do they say it… the cost of doing business, eh? Then there’s SLIME like you, Seville. Some upjumped American redneck who took karate when he was a little grub down at the YMCA and now he thinks he can march into MY country and steal MY traditions?”
His smile has turned into more of a snarl.
“With your pouty little face and your little black trunks. You think you're some sort of stone faced world-beater with your little kicks and ALL those impressive suplexs. You? You’re the worst kind of foreigner.”
He flicks at the bloodstains on his sleeve.
“A THIEF. Sorry for the rough night, thief. Nothing personal.”
With that he rises to his feet, turns to start off down the sidewalk and we fade to black.
NOBODY. IS. SAFE.
One of the metal double doors leading out of one side of the large athletics complex clatters open, slamming back against the wall before slowly closing itself. Through the doorway a largish figure clad in a white and gold tracksuit saunters out onto the public sidewalk. As the figure approaches we can see clearly now who this is. The Pale General, the Ghost Go Gensai plops himself on the wall of a large planter outside the arena. He looks back at the Yamato Athletic Plaza with a strange little smile on his mostly placid face.
He looks down suddenly at his sleeve… where not a small amount of what looks to be blood staining the pale white fabric of his tracksuit jacket. He narrows his eyes and purses his lips slightly as he surveys the stains.
He spies more down one of the legs of his pants. He shakes his head and tisks softly.
“Serious Seville.“
That funny little smile starts to fade as he speaks. Raspy broken English.
“Big monsters and famous stars from the west, they have their place here now and again. They come in… draw a big crowd. Then the real wrestlers steal the show. The westerners are… puppets. Tools. A means to an end. How do they say it… the cost of doing business, eh? Then there’s SLIME like you, Seville. Some upjumped American redneck who took karate when he was a little grub down at the YMCA and now he thinks he can march into MY country and steal MY traditions?”
His smile has turned into more of a snarl.
“With your pouty little face and your little black trunks. You think you're some sort of stone faced world-beater with your little kicks and ALL those impressive suplexs. You? You’re the worst kind of foreigner.”
He flicks at the bloodstains on his sleeve.
“A THIEF. Sorry for the rough night, thief. Nothing personal.”
With that he rises to his feet, turns to start off down the sidewalk and we fade to black.
NOBODY. IS. SAFE.