Post by Michael Bishop on Mar 15, 2022 1:03:55 GMT -5
“Are you pissed off, Bishop?”
The words of Liz Karlson bounce inside the head of Michael Bishop as he strikes a heavy bag. The again… and again. It feels like, for the first time in years all of his punch have purpose, and are working. It feels like for the first time in years, everything is clicking. The veil of almosts and not quites He and the brick shit house herself shared one common enemy: Fate. Two people at different points in their careers, Liz at the start, and Michael himself two decades deep. Yet…. recently it seemed as if a ceiling kept them from reaching the next level-
“Have you had enough of this shit?”
Bishop hits a headkick, cro-cop style on a heavy bag, he finds himself in the ring just a week and a half ago… standing across from their opponents. He’d been burned by tag teams before… Fight Club, B.O.B, The Mafia, hell even Frontline eventually threw him underneath the tires when it came to the other members trying to succeed. Yet, he was The Revenant. Why would he throw in with another tag team that might devour him? He remembers that question being answered when he and Liz Karlson stood victorious over Sonya Benson and Levy… a nod between the two of them, and a fist bump-
“Yeah. It’s time for shit to change”.
He was hesitant, but he kept to his better judgment. Liz Karlson didn’t become Liz motherfucking Karlson without both the know-how and the skull cracking efficiency that made her: Liz Karlson. Hell, if it were anyone else, Bishop would have told them to fuck right off. Still, he didn’t become Michael Fucking Bishop by throwing caution to the wind and believing in feel good stories with no foundation… however, BFG made their foundation in Project Honor with a gatecrashing entrance. The victories that were coming in, although few, were an exclamation point on the toughest year in his long career. Maybe, she did have a point. Maybe the experienced Dreadknight could learn a thing or two by taking a step back and-
“Fuck”.
Bishop finds Liz in a cardio room, back against the wall as it’s clear that she’s been going at it for a while. A long while. Michael urged Liz to be cautious… as a victim of an all too real injury that took a lot of time, he tried to get her to take her foot off the figurative pedal. She listened, with respect, but she never did. He respected her tenacity. Still, he knew something was eating away at her, more so than usual:
“You ready, Killer?” Bishop asked, Liz nodded; “Always”. Bishop paced around, a lot more active than he was a few short weeks ago. Rust and dread from a rough start to 2022 had been all to washed away by a fire under their collective asses. He seemed active, hell- he seemed alive. “Analysis, chief? What do you think of the freakshow team across from us?”, Bishop shrugged “A challenger and a Champion, it’s a good way of getting them out of their comfort zone… but don’t rest on laurels. One’s a former champion, one’s a current. But…. Question, Liz”.
“Shoot”. “Why did you join up with me? You’re Liz fuckin’ Karlson, you could have thrown in with anyone and they would have said yes”. Liz raised an eyebrow “Seriously?”, “I’m waiting”, “... You’re the fucking Dreadknight. You’re a living legend, you’re one of the last real deal baddest motherfuckers here. Despite the setbacks, despite everything, you’ve shown why you’re one of the best in the world. I respect that more than anything-”, “Exactly. Liz for all our differences, we’re two reapers trying to make our way in the world the only way we know how: By force, by fire and sword. A simple goal that brought two people in two very different points in their career together. We washed away any doubts when we annihilated those two motherfuckers last round, and now? We get the chance to show everyone what we’re about by stack wiping two of Fallout’s ‘Best’ in a single match”.
Liz scoffs “ ‘Best’. You know it really seems like they pick favorites? How many times have Fallout managers thrown free candy title shots at some, while people like us sit here and burn rubber every week waiting for our shot? Hell… you got the fastest fucking knock out in company history just a few shows ago!! NINE SECONDS!! And they… what? Relegate you to a fucking battle royale?!”.
“-We have something they don’t. Trust. A trait only developed when you’ve shared the same, gritty, shitty foxhole with a motherfucker. A lot of people have and will always doubt us for a few missteps, Karlson. Hell… the fiery haired bitch standing across from us believes one singular win tells your entire story. We know different, I know different- we know we’re more than just one setback, just one loss, and that’s why we’ve carried one where others have fallen. It’s why we came together, it’s why we’re going to drive a fucking pike through the hearts of these motherfuckers riding easy while we have been down in the gutter getting work done, slitting throats and collecting skulls. They’ll be too busy scanning each other for knives in the back, but we trust each other. I trust you, you trust me. We’re an actual team. We’re a fucking unit. We’re a Division”.
Liz chuckles “Well, I knew you’d come around”. Bishop rolls his eyes “Took some getting used to, we’re both stubborn motherfuckers. Now… on your feet, we’ve got work to do”.
What is the mission statement for BFG Division? Well… it’s pretty simple. Two of the most hard hitting motherfuckers got tired of the bullshit, the politics, and the bad luck that modern combat sports seems to garner. We could have gotten mad, we could have flipped the board, painted ourselves like Havoc, joined a Skinhead like Savannah Sunshine… but, we didn’t. It’s because Liz Karlson and I share a similar idea: We could throw everything we are because of one bad day, but why should we? Perseverance is the key and epitome of a long lasting fighter… as someone who’s been doing this for a long fucking time, I should know. Nah what motherfuckers don’t get is that the moment after a loss will make you or break you, and you’re gonna need an intercontinental ballistic missile to break a motherfucker like Me or Liz, because hellfire, Lightning, and a literal gun haven’t worked. No… when times get tough, you double down. When shit gets rough, you group up.
When you’re face to face with Fallout’s chosen kids, during the roughest period of your life. You spit on your hands, you raise the black flag, and you prepare to taste Main Eventer blood. I won’t lie, I won’t cry, and I certainly won’t underestimate. The two before us are proven fighters, one of which is a legend with more gold to her name than many others, and enough prestige in her pinkie to fill an arena…. The other is Mr. Wright.
Fun seeing you again, Ms. Alyssa Grace. I wish it were under better circumstances but I knew with someone like you, we’d sooner meet across battle lines than at a function or a pep rally. Fine by me… We’re fighters, we’re some of the best in the world and I get my rocks off by bricking the world’s finest month after month, show after show, week after week. BFG cleaned up the brand last time, we’ll fucking do it again. Humor me, Alyssa… you’re a former Omega Heavyweight Champion, I’m the current American Heavyweight Champion, we’ve gone toe to toe, we’ve been neck and neck and yet for all your momentum and hype- you’ve never beaten me, not even close.
The defining factor here is this isn’t a singles match, is it? It’s a tag match, may the best team win, and yet… you don’t have a team, do you? You’re shoulder to shoulder with a man of smoke and mirrors, and crafty ass bullshit. Mr. Wright has built his entire brand off of sitting on a belt and warding off challengers with folk tales and lunacy. You’re a killer, Alyssa. You’re an absolute fucking beast… but you couldn’t see the cash in coming from a mile away, you don’t have eyes in the back of your head. You could barely trust your instincts, how the fuck are you going to trust a devil in your corner who would sooner usurp you than help you win. Wright has no stake in this, and he sure as shit has no stake in you winning.
BFG is built off of being a movement, a way of fucking life. We’re a Brother and Sister in Arms, shieldmates willing to do whatever the fuck it takes to win. We’re hell bent on showing everyone why this is our turf, why the soil you and that scum currently stand on belongs to us. And why we’re willing to defend it by any means necessary. No one is making us apart of their LeGacY. No matter the person, so-cal god, tyrant, or champion…
…Speaking of Champions- the Noble Champion himself, or, is it the ? Champion now? It’s a fitting title because, I’m not gonna lie, Wright, I barely knew you were the fucking champion before this. That spells it out, doesn’t it. A forgettable motherfucker in a turtleneck sweater, stagnating a prestigious title so badly it doesn’t even have a name anymore. You know, I really do hope Alyssa absolutely fucking brains you. Because maybe then Fallout will have a staple champion worthy of holding the title, but until then, you’re ours. You’ve shown you are a worthless stack of flesh, a failure to the belt, the company, the fans, and the world- and it’s up to the motherfucking Division to put you in your place and embarrass you on international television. There’s nothing more to say… others might get creeped out, but I’ve stood across from cartel thugs, serial killers, and psychopaths and I know a scared man when I see one. You clutch that belt tightly because you know when it’s gone, it’s gone. The relevancy, the illusion of power, and your ownly source of pride. We’re gonna have to spoil Alyssa’s victory early… we’re going to have to take your pride from you, in this ring. We’re gonna take your pride, your dignity, and your credibility as a champion as we watch you two fight for your survival, let alone victory.
What is a challenger to a champion, and what is a champion to a bunch of legitimate killers who can and will run you over, run you down, and eat you alive.
We are BFG Division. We’re the newest team on the scene, and the only stable worthy of putting a stake in. Fallout has been stagnant off of complacency and entitlement and too many motherfuckers have been sipping their own koolaid. Liz and I are hell bent on cementing ourselves in this industry, we’re going to take this shit by storm and if that means running both of you over in the prime of your run so fucking be it. It’s time to break down an era of spoon fed challengers, hand held champions, and it’s time to take what the fuck is ours, by any means necessary. Whatever it takes. By Force.
This is our territory, this is our turf, and what happens between those bells will cement this as such because this match is our victory.
