Welcome to Gaia! ::

Freakshow walks out to the gorilla position clad in a sleeveless denim jacket with an Eagle on the back of it as well as an American Flag bandanna strapped both around his head and around his thighs which were quite suggestively exposed by a pair of cut off jean shorts. His arms were exposed and swollen accompanying track marks which to some would serve as adequate explanation for the inexplicable and sudden muscle mass gain to which Freak would respond: "I'm the ******** boss baby," Whilst flexing a purple veined arm.

WIth the microphone already clenched in his hand Mr. No Days Off squats on the ground. He looks behind him and as if on cue, a massive marble statue of Mad Dog McLennon is rolled out onto the front of the stage. The fans stare in awe at the perfectly crafted and immaculately designed piece of which there were said to be only two copies of in the world. Pushing the statue is Mark Laundre 2.0 wielding a large golden sledgehammer.

Holding the microphone in his hand he speaks.

"You understand what we're trying to do here, right?

"JUST HOLD IT RIGHT THERE YOU YELLOW SON OF A b***h!" Freakshow points at Mad Dog, gesturing Laundre over to the statue. His face was red, his eyes were red, and there was a small amount of blood on the corner of his mouth. In addition his pinky finger was bandaged and red. "NOT ANOTHER STEP JACK." Freak being enhanced did not change the fact that he was essentially a junior heavyweight. Now he just sort of looked like Kevin Sullivan. With this in mind, positioning himself behind the hulking Mark Laundre 2.0, who had at this time raised the hammer over the statue, Freakshow issues his ultimatum.

"HOLD ON MARK!"

Freakshow puts an arm out stopping 2.0 with the hammer raised high over his head. The heavy freezes in his tracks. The manager looks from over the shoulder of his bodyguard towards the imminent threat wielding a staple gun. It appeared as if McLennon was altogether unwilling to allow Freakshow to call the shots. Fair enough. Straightening his jean jacket out, he raises the microphone to his mouth. "Ok McLennon... We'll pick Option A. Have it your way. But just know that you're living on borrowed time because our match his booked for next week."

"Oh, I forgot."

Turning on a heel the Marauder dashes towards the marble statue! Throwing himself palms first against the exquisite work of art the large structure rocks on it's side, slowly tipping over in the direction of it's beloved subject.

The statue smashes to a bajillion pieces on the ground. Freakshow steps back, his ears ringing from the sheer impact of the statues destruction. Hearing nothing but ringing the blonde staggers through the wreckage towards the ramp kicking through pieces of marble, although his mobility had deteriorated he still knew that he looked really really good and that made it not matter so much.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

Freak looks back over his shoulder unnerved by the timbre of the high-pitched scream. It didn't sound like McLennon, who he had assumed to be lying under a pile of rubble. It sounded big, black and cybernetic. It was Mark Laundre getting staples pounded into the front of his head.

"Uh oh-"

Taking one step back The Marauder's heel bumps up against the marble bust of McLennon's head sending him unceremoniously tumbling down close to halfway down the entrance ramp. Propping himself up on his elbows he begins scooting backwards rapidly like in a horror movie where the black guy gets killed first by a deranged redneck.

YOU KNOW WHAT-?!

Freakshow, on the ground and feeling less muscular than he actually was found himself in quite the pickle. From a strategic standpoint he really hadn't thought this one through at all. If the long term plan had been to drop a statue on Mad Dog McLennon he had on all accounts failed his primary goal. In addition to his objective failure he is now faced with the prospect of an immediate beating or potentially the loss of his golden oasis. The very prospect sends a small trickle of urine out of the urethra of the former WWFG Heavyweight Champion, an immediate biological rejection of his decision:

"-UH.. YEAH. HAIR VS HAIR--

Gagging slightly he looks past Mad Dog towards the body of Mike Laundre in a puddle of his own milk blood. Twitching slightly. Bumping up against the apron, out of room to retreat, he looks up at his rival feeling very much ********. A lump goes down his throat. This had all gone horribly, horribly to s**t. Whilst reaching into his coat pocket he risks the gesture:

As McLennon advances with the handshake Freakshow, who had at this point moved up to his feet, removes his left hand from his suit pocket. An attentive fan would notice a wad of paper in said hand. An extremely attentive fan would notice that it was in fact flash paper. The kind you use to throw fireballs. Only it just looked like normal paper so the fan would have to be some kind of autistic, you know, like a paper savant.



He says while clenching his fist, widening his smile.

"Ow ow ow.."

Freakshow winces slightly as Mad Dog puts a vice on his hand. He got the message loud and clear, the gleam of the stapler catching his eye as he stands face to face with his opponent for next week. At the present moment he knew there was absolutely nothing stopping staples from getting lodged into his billion dollar face other than a contract that' already been breached to shreds.

"So uh.. We're good?"