Post by Michael Bishop on Nov 15, 2021 11:25:08 GMT -5
Bo Maro: You know you could have just said no.
Michael Bishop: No one in the history of combat sports ever made history by saying No, Bo.
(We see flashes of Bishop’s training…. Top tier striking that combines lightweight speed with heavyweight power, Muay Thai brutality that causes many of his training partners to crumble. We see him wrapping people up in submissions, chaining them with holds to force them to break. We see flashes of Puroresu and Cruiserweight antics, combining 20 years of Mixed Martial Art Expirements; 4x Golden Glove Boxing, a fourth degree brown belt, black belts in Muay Thai, Judo… with elements he’s learned during his championship reign in Strong Style Wrestling and Kingdom Pro…).
Bo Maro: Well this isn’t just some match we’re talking about.
Michael Bishop: Nothing I haven’t faced before.
(...We then see his added preparations for the second annual purge. He stands alone in a concrete room, 3 men rush him. One strikes with a knife, he grabs them, getting them into a wristlock. He dodges a swing of a pipe, kicks the man in the shin and then drops them with a knee. He ducks under another swing, hitting a spinning back elbow before seizing the knife. With a palm strike, and a chop to the neck… the rest fall. He stands there, gazing at the knife, gripping it tightly-).
Bo Maro: There’s multiple champions on the lose, defending their titles out there… people like Slade Castle and Valkyrie. Then, old “friends”.... Graham Baker, Havoc-
Michael Bishop: The names change, but the rules remain the same. You see I come from a very gladiatorial upbringing. Whilst these mothafuckers were too busy in school, falling in love, enjoying time with their families… I got thrown headfirst into this shit. While they were training in their gyms, in their school, I was already a veteraned fighter fending off the russian mob.
Bo Maro: And how did you fend them off?
(...Bishop hacks into a training dummy with the knife,he hits a perfect judo hiptoss and then thrusts it right into the jugular. We see him practicing with weapon improvisation, things he’d find around Whalan: A table leg becomes a club, hammer becomes a cranium killer, a ball point pen becomes instrumental in blinding his opponent. We last see him at a shooting range…. A pistol, a high powered rifle… he checks, loads, and aims them with precision).
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Bo Maro: So…. what’s the mission statement?
Michael Bishop: Turn the town of Whalan, Minnesota into my own personal battlefield. Strike from the shadows, picking off whoever I can, let them bleed each other dry… make it to that final ring, and gut the bastard standing across from me.
Bo Maro: Well… you might want to get going then. Time’s running out.
“One more thing, Mikhael…”.
(Bishop turns… Bo and him are inside of the back room of an old school pub, discussing this across an oak table as Bishop loads a duffel bag with various supplies. He eyes the other reason he defeated the russian mob. Former Spetsnaz, his friend, codenamed: “Cyka”. The hulking russian gazes up through his balaclava… he finishes cleaning something with a rag- an old school russian pistol, a Makarov. He places it on the table, sliding it to Bishop).
Cyka: Simple design, easy to maintain…. Perfect for close quarter shots.
Bishop: Good shit… I’ll be back, Bo, Cyka, hold down the fort.
Bo Maro: We will await your return…. And pop the champagne when you walk back in with that briefcase in hand.
(Bishop packs up his bag, he heads outside to his car. A run in with the black sun torched his old camaro, so he’s back to using the old one. An armored up Mustang, perfect for a purge night. Bishop loads the bag into shotgun as he revs it up… he drives down a highway, speeding up when he sees the sign: WHALAN, MN - 23 MILES).
Opportunity comes in many forms…. A hundred bucks you find on the sidewalk, winning the lottery… or a contract offer to one of the most profitable companies in combat sports. There’s one thing I’ve learned over the last several-multiple-varied fuckin’ years… Every single time we step under those ropes figuratively or literally, everytime walk in, put our foot on the five yard line we gamble everything. I’ve been on the wrong side of history many times, on the bad end of wars plenty of times, and have felt the fury of what it means for god to cut you down as a soccer kick, a flying knee, a strike to the temple.
We all gamble, lose it all or win the world. You hesitate, you’re going to be someone else’s meal, hold back for even a second and the world will show you it’s true colors at muzzle velocity. The purge is no exception to this; spanning across an entire town it’s an environment dripping with gold, ripe with opportunity, and yet, blanketed in a sea of hostility and venom. I could’ve sat out, I could have said no… and yet when the choice came to make my debut in the second annual purge instead of watching the bloodletter war in Whalan play out…. Why did I say yes? Because it is the opportunity of a fuckin’ lifetime.
Why? Why the fuck not? Two belts and a shot at destiny… The Acension Championship, on the line. The Gatekeepers championship, on the line. And above it all... the universal briefcase- on the line. What better way to make a statement in my debut, than cashing in and taking the whole fucking pot. What better way to keep everyone on their toes than by taking the briefcase to end all briefcases, and keeping every single belt holder awake at night. What better way to gatecrash the fucking company everyone said I should go to that by taking everything they wanted from their cold, dead hands.
I know a lucrative deal when I see it, I’m a prize fighter two decades strong. I also see the adversity and let me tell you, I am not fucking shook. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a match like this, this won’t be the last, and it won’t be the first time I’ve won something like this. Everyone always fuckin’ says “Michael Bishop can’t adapt in the modern pro wrestling world”. I walked into parabellum unknown to many, and I took that fucker by storm. The Hardcore War, the Circus Death Match, The Great War. Every single fuckin’ multiman war I’ve walked into, I’ve won, any others that I came up short on, everyone left with a chill down their spine and a haunting reminder than I am on their ass and I will cash in the little receipt for next time.
Next time is now, the time is now, there may be no other shot at this, there is no other shot- two belts, and a shot for another. People will spend their entire time in Whalan, cowering in a corner, ducking for cover. Me? My fight or flight instinct has always, and will always be set to fight, to kill, to take the fight to that place and drag everyone into a rapture of blood and fear. The is no time for complacency, no time for fear, no time to die. The Purge is a kill or be killed environment in it’s purest form, the only person standing at the end is the survivor of a gauntlet of over 60 folks sent to slug it out. Many will be shellshocked in the opening minutes, afterwards they’ll be stressed, a cold chill on the back of their neck, the hot anxiety cooking any cohesive thoughts they have for the fear of being killed. I’ve always had a cold, dead baseline in the heat of it all, I thrive in harsh environments and I am a fucking apex predator in this sport.
Others see insurmountable odds, any would say the deck is stacked firmly out of my favor- when are they not. I’m a 34 year old man who’s been fighting men a decade younger than me, and I have been winning for years. I have taken enough gold to build a fucking statue of myself, I have enough skulls of my opponents to build a fucking pyramid. The truth is someone has to make it to that ending line, someone has to end up in that ring, someone has to kill the bastard on the opposite corner, and someone will leave the winner. It’s going to be me. All I am is surrounded by fear and dead men, ego-ridden champions looking to save their strap and leave because they don’t want to risk it. That’s not how you’re remembered in history, that’s not what being the best means. You either gamble everything you have for everything you want or you end up as a line in someone else’s folktale.
Everyone rants about violence and sending people to the hospital- I send motherfuckers to the morgue on the daily, what the fuck do you think I’m going to do in a megamatch where I get to do whatever the fuck I need and want to win? Someone of you know who I am, others don’t. Let me educate you, so you know how many CCs of fuck you I’m going to distribute when I lodge a five knuckle railgun so far into your orbital bone, they’ll call it a lobotomy.
I am the greatest Heavyweight of all time, the greatest professional fighter of all time. 2 Decades in total, multiple years in the squared circle, the playbook I have has been cultivated and collected from every trainer, from every corner of the world. I salivate at the thought, not just of the gold, but for the fight. I live for this shit, I am made for this shit, I am made for war. 247lbs, the most diverse arsenal on this roster, from Muay Thai, to boxing, to Jujitsu, to krav maga, to taekwondo, to puroresu, to lucha, to some disciplines half you kids haven’t even heard of. I am a war machine still in my fucking prime. I live for a good fight, if the blood isn’t pumping, if my opponent isn’t bleeding like a stuck pig, if I am not locking horns with the most bloodthirsty division boogeyman a promotion has to offer I call it a failed day because anything less is not up to the fucking standard.
And who is there to stop me? I’m not dumb, I’ve been scouting Fallout for months before I touched down and still, I ask, who will stand up to me to stop me? Jason Long? My brother in arms, former Project Honor Double Champ, Once a fivetuple champion, notorious spartan’s champion, a mainstay- who I’ve beaten, crushed cleanly. Twice.
Alyssa Grace? Former Goddesses Champion, currently Mrs. ATTH Briefcase holder. I’ve gotten my ass kicked by women in this shit plenty of times to know better. I’m sure a second briefcase to her would look delightful, she comes from the same territories I do, the same irish blood pumps through our veins…. But if you think for a fucking second I’m going to let her run me over and take this, you’re god damn wrong. She’s an animal, a celtic warrior of old- so I’m going to have fun putting the pedal to the metal to take you down, beat you down, and keep you down. I’m not some dickswinging, haymaker spamming piece of shit. I am the most complete motherfucker on the roster who’s made a career of ripping people apart, literally, tearing off their limbs, literally, and beating them to death with it- literally. I do not hesitate, I do not miss, and I will be coming for everyone’s neck, including hers.
Remi Skyfire? The cyborg who thought she was hot shit, mid-tier belt on her shoulder she squared up and tried to scare me into the corsairs. A couple months later I shibata’d her knee, crushed her nose, and layed her out, crucified. The last time we met, she looked over me, looked down upon me, viewed me as nothing more than a speedbump and a less than human motherfucker. It was so fucking satisfying ripping off her little corsair jacket. One thing you learn from the octagon: Anyone can and will cut you down, and it’s best not to throw stones at a fucking steel Dreadknight when I have already opened you up, dissected you, and ate you whole.
Graham Baker? lost corsair, current Heavyweight champion. The last time we met, he got a good shot, congrats. That little slab of silver that you noosed a homeless man for doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. You’re an Omega Heavyweight Champion? I’m the American Heavyweight Champion. Past ties are littering this purge like fucking free candy, everyone getting to lost in past wars, not keeping their eyes on the prize. I am. We both may be something on foreign shores, but here, what we do now will define us, what we make ourselves in project honor will matter. That being said… Graham. You’re an arrogant little prick who’s waiting to catch a brick to your warped fucking skull. You failed to take over the world, you stabbed your brother in the back, so now I’m going to make like a strong style shogun and I’m going to run my blade through your fucking gut, through the front, gaze into your eyes, and and spill your championship moxy onto the streets of Whalan.
Havoc?.... Well, well, well. Hello again, Fuckface. If there was anyone I wanted to face again after our last encounter, it’s you. The notorious Nightmare King, the man who burned the world, the demon living inside the melting candle that is Christopher Sabertooth. I know full well what you’ve accomplished here, and I don’t care. It’s cause the last time we faced, I did what every single motherfucker failed to do during the height of your reign of terror and I put you down like a dog, got that fucking three count, and left you there to seethe that the non-powered cagefighter beat your ass like you owed me drug money and schooled you, forever living rent free that I could have taken everything from you if I wanted to.
I like fighting monsters, Havoc, I like slaying dragons even better. I liked getting in there with you and proving one thing to your demonic fucking soul, is that I’m better than you. Cracking the devil in the head and stunning him felt euphoric, dropping you on your neck, and beating the blood and piss out of you, was intoxicating. You are a snake oil salesman selling the bullshit that you are any better than the soy piece of fuck sitting in the back of your head. You’re going to walk in here, imagining yourself holding yet another briefcase, for a second time. The last time we met, in a ladder match, a briefcase and a shot at destiny hanging over our heads… I was too focused on the fight, too focused on the fire, I beat you til there was more blood and paint and escaped with the skin on your leathery back. I won’t make that mistake last time. I’m here to win, I’m here to take that fucking shot, I’m here to take my manifest destiny. If we should cross, which we will, I’ll prove one thing. This ring was made for combat, it was made for men, all the gods, all the devils, all the demons, all the false prophets can come, fall on my sword, and fucking die.
I like fighting monsters, Havoc, I like slaying dragons even better. I liked getting in there with you and proving one thing to your demonic fucking soul, is that I’m better than you. Cracking the devil in the head and stunning him felt euphoric, dropping you on your neck, and beating the blood and piss out of you, was intoxicating. You are a snake oil salesman selling the bullshit that you are any better than the soy piece of fuck sitting in the back of your head. You’re going to walk in here, imagining yourself holding yet another briefcase, for a second time. The last time we met, in a ladder match, a briefcase and a shot at destiny hanging over our heads… I was too focused on the fight, too focused on the fire, I beat you til there was more blood and paint and escaped with the skin on your leathery back. I won’t make that mistake last time. I’m here to win, I’m here to take that fucking shot, I’m here to take my manifest destiny. If we should cross, which we will, I’ll prove one thing. This ring was made for combat, it was made for men, all the gods, all the devils, all the demons, all the false prophets can come, fall on my sword, and fucking die.
Savannah Sunshine? my friend, my unborn child’s godmother. I’ve fought against her and beside her and I have the stones to tell about the time she humbled me by pinning my ass. I’m also not afraid to tell of the time I showed the world any could infact happen, when I carved her up and tapped her out. She’s a woman of absolute resilience, but if you think for one moment her, or the demonic succubus she’s got renting space in her ass is going to get the best of me, you can visit their collective graveplot in the cemetery afterwards. Then you’ve got her glue eating brother, Asher. The little engine who talked all the shit, thought he was better than an MMA Legend, and got his ass beat for minutes on end. He’s young, he’s got spirit, that’s more than most have. But he’s also got an ego and an attitude problem and I will repeat history as I run him over once-a-fucking-gain.
And then you’ve got the champions....Valkyrie.... Earl Boyde. Ascension Champion and Gatekeeper Champion respectively. Here’s a warning, you two. I don’t care how bad you think you are, I don’t care what shit you think you’re made of. World Class contenders? I’ve killed. Home town heroes? I’ve broken. You can scream and bash your fists all you want, punch all the air you please, dip your title in as much hepatitis filled blood… your reigns end here, for the both of you. You probably don’t know me, and that’s fine, because I know who you are- know enough. I know Earl fight with the strength of a bear, I know Valkyrie uses strong style viciousness as a means to an end, and I know that I will be stripping the title belts off of both of you by the end of this, one on my hip, one on my shoulder, belt in my off hand. My manifesto is written in the red iron of every single person I have stacked, and I will recite it to you through every cut, kick, and your last moments as you are deep in my triangle and I force you to quit.
Championkiller, industry boogeyman, you will know me as the motherfucker who walked in on his first day and took everything from you. You can scream, you can shout, you can cry, and you can die for what you believe in. I have persevered because I have always wanted it more, I was always willing to do what it takes, and even as long as I’ve been in this shit… I have always been, and always will be, hungrier than that motherfucker on the opposite end of the ring.
Call it a debut, call it a takeover, call it an invasion. Brand it whatever you like, because on November 25th… I’m walking into Whalan, I’m flipping that board on it’s head, and you’re all on my turf, on my rules. I’m going to win the purge, and if any of you slip up, which I know you most certainly fucking will, I am going to walk out of there with two championships, and one big fat briefcase, and there won’t be a single thing ya’ll can do about it. I’ll break whoever I have to, I’ll pave a road of you all into and out of the town. But at the end of the day, it will be my victory, and mine alone.
In 6 days, 12 hours, the second annual purge will commence. Over 60 members of the Project Honor roster will meet in the town of Whalan, and the fire that starts won’t stop burning until there’s one last mothafucker standing. I don’t care who’s standing on that opposite side of the ropes by the end of this, I know who’s gonna be last one standing… Me.
See you soon, Fuckers.
