Post by Robert Garland on Jan 30, 2015 14:13:55 GMT
A brief flash of silence falls with the opening sequence of the black frame. Then suddenly, it winks out. Emerging in its a place, a vast grey expanse of sky spread of darkened clouds bursting in furious rain and flickering blazes of lightning that crackle within its ever shifting mass. The apocalyptic view of resounding anger is only a vestige of the fortune currently found in Lafayette, California. Its weather heavily batters the buildings, streets and people, leaving hardly any sighting of residents around to enliven the scenery.
As the camera motions its clear optics into the absolute vacancy found on Mt. Diablo Blvd, something happens. Trapped within the shallow gap that is found between the sites of a Jack in the Box and Wine Thieves, an audible sound of footsteps squelching against the wet pavement offers some sort of modesty amid the chaos. Steps that grow increasingly loud by the number.
"Revolution is a force of habit that marks itself on my existence. Like it's a primal instinct and a way of life."
A surly and grim voice calls out from inside the shade. It's unrecognizable thus far.
"You could say, I'm a man that indulges in the maddening storm of chaos—soaking myself up in all bloodshed, receptive to the feud and being one against the world. I like the 'turmoil' a challenge brews as much as putting down scumbags. And it's this fixation with fighting that breathes life into my mantra: I ply between the best to learn from the best and ultimately become the best. My need to revolutionize myself is what urges me to cross lines and break new ground with unmerciful tenacity some of you are probably not fuckin' ready to stomach."
Slowly trudging out from the alley's cloak of shadow, the raven-haired and debuting RWD talent – Desmond "The Storm Maker" Lord – comes in full visible contact amid intermittent flashes of light. His long hair wildly brandishes wet over his face, hiding his expression like the black he decks out.
"Not sure if your powers of observation are helping you now, but I'm not a traditionalist." He says, hands loudly clapped together at the center of his abdomen, every finger curiously drumming in between the knuckles with eagerness. "I don't follow in anyone's footsteps or like living under others' standards. I walk off the beaten path, doing things my way without care of playing the part of hero or villain like a musical thespian on Broadway that craves crowd reaction. My rules are ruthless and what I do is no less."
His tone picks up aggressive-assertive as he inches closely onto the camera bolted in front.
"It doesn't matter who you are, where you're from, what you've done in the past or what you psyche yourself into thinking you are going to do now and tomorrow. Once you get in my face, boy," the corner of his right lip creeps up in a snarl. "My aim is simple: I'm going destroy you from the roots of your hair down to nails of your toes. Once you breathe down my neck, I'm going to strip you off your pride and break you like fuckin' twigs. You'll then be indoctrinated with the idiom of why the 'burned child dreads the fire', because your rendition of it will be that of messing with the wrong person long enough to see the retaliation make you its bitch."
Just as soon as his mildly bronze face comes up to the full frame of the camera, he makes a hacking and sarcastic breath followed by a faint smile stretching across his right cheek. Like a would-be laugh of mockery.
"Revolutionary Wrestling Division, you're about to be under the siege of a storm that like the biblical deluge – is going to change everything you know. And it all begins at Road to Conquest."
As the camera motions its clear optics into the absolute vacancy found on Mt. Diablo Blvd, something happens. Trapped within the shallow gap that is found between the sites of a Jack in the Box and Wine Thieves, an audible sound of footsteps squelching against the wet pavement offers some sort of modesty amid the chaos. Steps that grow increasingly loud by the number.
"Revolution is a force of habit that marks itself on my existence. Like it's a primal instinct and a way of life."
A surly and grim voice calls out from inside the shade. It's unrecognizable thus far.
"You could say, I'm a man that indulges in the maddening storm of chaos—soaking myself up in all bloodshed, receptive to the feud and being one against the world. I like the 'turmoil' a challenge brews as much as putting down scumbags. And it's this fixation with fighting that breathes life into my mantra: I ply between the best to learn from the best and ultimately become the best. My need to revolutionize myself is what urges me to cross lines and break new ground with unmerciful tenacity some of you are probably not fuckin' ready to stomach."
Slowly trudging out from the alley's cloak of shadow, the raven-haired and debuting RWD talent – Desmond "The Storm Maker" Lord – comes in full visible contact amid intermittent flashes of light. His long hair wildly brandishes wet over his face, hiding his expression like the black he decks out.
"Not sure if your powers of observation are helping you now, but I'm not a traditionalist." He says, hands loudly clapped together at the center of his abdomen, every finger curiously drumming in between the knuckles with eagerness. "I don't follow in anyone's footsteps or like living under others' standards. I walk off the beaten path, doing things my way without care of playing the part of hero or villain like a musical thespian on Broadway that craves crowd reaction. My rules are ruthless and what I do is no less."
His tone picks up aggressive-assertive as he inches closely onto the camera bolted in front.
"It doesn't matter who you are, where you're from, what you've done in the past or what you psyche yourself into thinking you are going to do now and tomorrow. Once you get in my face, boy," the corner of his right lip creeps up in a snarl. "My aim is simple: I'm going destroy you from the roots of your hair down to nails of your toes. Once you breathe down my neck, I'm going to strip you off your pride and break you like fuckin' twigs. You'll then be indoctrinated with the idiom of why the 'burned child dreads the fire', because your rendition of it will be that of messing with the wrong person long enough to see the retaliation make you its bitch."
Just as soon as his mildly bronze face comes up to the full frame of the camera, he makes a hacking and sarcastic breath followed by a faint smile stretching across his right cheek. Like a would-be laugh of mockery.
"Revolutionary Wrestling Division, you're about to be under the siege of a storm that like the biblical deluge – is going to change everything you know. And it all begins at Road to Conquest."
so quickly so sad!
