The camera focuses on The Ambassador Bridge; a center piece of Detroit architecture.
The frame switches to a closer shot, from the US-side of the bridge's walk way. Its just after sunset; dark out. The bridge's lights are shining and evening traffic can be heard in the background.
A lone man stands at the guardrail, looking over the Detroit River. The figure is wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the Misfits logo on the back, and casually smokes a cigarette. He seems to be talking to himself; or, the black water below. The camera zooms closer in order to hear.
Detroit; Motown, D-Rock, the 313, City of Champions. And my favorite, of course, Murder City. Its good to be back...
The figure turns around, lowering his hood. The painted visage of Krymzon Ghost stares back from the screen. He pulls heavily from the cigarette before speaking again.
But what have I come back too? We have a primadonna for an Undisputed Champion; who, since the Reboot, has yet to even make a live appearance. An Intercontinental Champion who, and this is not due to lack of respect, I beat my first match back in the G-Fed big leagues. And then there's our Tag Team Champions! Wait...
With a puzzled look, Krymzon looks off camera.
We do have Tag Champs, don't we?
He shakes his head and waves off the question.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is, this company... this industry needs a shock to its pulse. The herd needs a little thinning, so to speak. Maybe a little humbling is in order. I see so many inflated heads walking around the locker rooms. "I've done this! I've done that! Bibbity-blah! Bibbity-blah-blah bibbity!" Pft!
Emotion washes from KG's face as he presses close to the camera.
What have you done today?
He wanders back to the guardrail, his attention on the skyline.
A great man once said, "In order to be the best, you have to beat the best." But the only way to find the best, is to fight... everybody. And only then can you stand on top of the heap and truly claim to be The Man.
I'm here now, WWF. And I'm not going anywhere. I have a lot of time to prove my case. And I have a lot of fight in me to back it up. So be warned...
He squats low and springboards up onto the guardrail, expertly maintaining his balance. He watches the rushing river below.
...the Red Death is coming. The end is nigh. And the Legacy of Brutality has only just started.
With that he leaps out into the air, rotating his body backward into a backflip. He seems to hover there for several moments - moments that seem to drag out forever - before dropping out of sight past the bridge line.
The cameraman rushes forward, the frame swinging downward over the rail. Krymzon is nowhere to be seen though. No shot of him plummeting to his doom, or hanging from the bridge for his life. The water below rushes as rivers do, but remains undisturbed. The silence is eery without the expected falling scream.
The camera operator is in a panic.
Where the hell did he go?!? Do we call somebody?! He... he just...
Vanished. Into thin air. Like a ghost.
The frame switches to a closer shot, from the US-side of the bridge's walk way. Its just after sunset; dark out. The bridge's lights are shining and evening traffic can be heard in the background.
A lone man stands at the guardrail, looking over the Detroit River. The figure is wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the Misfits logo on the back, and casually smokes a cigarette. He seems to be talking to himself; or, the black water below. The camera zooms closer in order to hear.
Detroit; Motown, D-Rock, the 313, City of Champions. And my favorite, of course, Murder City. Its good to be back...
The figure turns around, lowering his hood. The painted visage of Krymzon Ghost stares back from the screen. He pulls heavily from the cigarette before speaking again.
But what have I come back too? We have a primadonna for an Undisputed Champion; who, since the Reboot, has yet to even make a live appearance. An Intercontinental Champion who, and this is not due to lack of respect, I beat my first match back in the G-Fed big leagues. And then there's our Tag Team Champions! Wait...
With a puzzled look, Krymzon looks off camera.
We do have Tag Champs, don't we?
He shakes his head and waves off the question.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is, this company... this industry needs a shock to its pulse. The herd needs a little thinning, so to speak. Maybe a little humbling is in order. I see so many inflated heads walking around the locker rooms. "I've done this! I've done that! Bibbity-blah! Bibbity-blah-blah bibbity!" Pft!
Emotion washes from KG's face as he presses close to the camera.
What have you done today?
He wanders back to the guardrail, his attention on the skyline.
A great man once said, "In order to be the best, you have to beat the best." But the only way to find the best, is to fight... everybody. And only then can you stand on top of the heap and truly claim to be The Man.
I'm here now, WWF. And I'm not going anywhere. I have a lot of time to prove my case. And I have a lot of fight in me to back it up. So be warned...
He squats low and springboards up onto the guardrail, expertly maintaining his balance. He watches the rushing river below.
...the Red Death is coming. The end is nigh. And the Legacy of Brutality has only just started.
With that he leaps out into the air, rotating his body backward into a backflip. He seems to hover there for several moments - moments that seem to drag out forever - before dropping out of sight past the bridge line.
The cameraman rushes forward, the frame swinging downward over the rail. Krymzon is nowhere to be seen though. No shot of him plummeting to his doom, or hanging from the bridge for his life. The water below rushes as rivers do, but remains undisturbed. The silence is eery without the expected falling scream.
The camera operator is in a panic.
Where the hell did he go?!? Do we call somebody?! He... he just...
Vanished. Into thin air. Like a ghost.
