|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Jun 09, 2025 9:43 am
The video of Bison ran it's course, and the camera feed returned to the ring, ready to start the first match of the night. An interruption came in the form of Blackjack. The hardcore hedonist stood center ring, watching the titantron with a bemused expression on his face. It was then he seemed to notice the change in perspective and turned to look directly into the camera, directly into the eyes of million watching, both in the arena and from home. He lifted a mic slowly and a wide grin spread across his face.
“Go ahead…” He taunted, “ask me.” He waited for a moment as if he were actually listening to the multitude of people asking him how the match against Bison ended. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Well he seems confused, like he doesn't remember. I'd posit that I might have given him some form of brain damage if I could be convinced he had one.” As he spoke a clip from their match played on the titantron. Blackjack was standing over Bison on the ropes, beating him in the head joyously with blackened steel knuckles.
“Sure, Bison won the match. But what he's failing to point out to you was just how outmatched he was.” Images flashed of the multiple finishers that Blackjack bodily took and then got back up. The clips were separated by the desperate and horrified looks that Bison kept expressing.
“But, like most of his career. His victory was a gift. I let Bison win. It became clear early on that he didn't have the impact needed to defeat me.
It's just lucky for him that the accolade he's chasing is beneath me. My boss expressed to me the importance of letting Bison continue on through the King of the Canvas tournament. I had no problem with that, what use have I, for a lordship over some fabric. My fiefdom is far more grand than these 20 feet.
So after I grew bored of his ineptitude, I let him win. I gave him the victory, just as so many others have done to build his bland career.” The clips from their match stopped, ending on a bloodied Bison with a shocked expression.
He shifted and looked around the arena. “I set out to prove a point, and I did. Because while the roster are scrambling to fight for the canvas I am here to announce that I'm already the king. I walked into a normal rules match, and because I willed it so, I made it into a chairs match. And no one thought to object. No one challenged my decision. Not Bison, not the official, none of the executives. No one.
Why would they? I am the Hardcore King. Every match I'm in is a hardcore match. Bison's victory legitimized my reign.
Which is why I'm here. I am most displeased. This federation seeks to brand itself Hardcore Heaven, and yet they do not send an invitation to their Hardcore King. I may not be booked for a match tonight, but I'm going to be spilling blood.” As he spoke he pulled his suit jacket off and started rolling his sleeves up…
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jun 10, 2025 6:09 pm
Blackjack had made his proclamation: a king who didn’t need a tournament to claim his crown. Standing tall in the ring, he scoffed at the idea of titles or accolades being earned through brackets and rounds. He had already done enough. Already proven his worth by decimating Bison, a nearly 400-pound behemoth who only recently lost the Intercontinental Championship to Lykos. Blackjack claimed he let Bison walk away with a win—because winning was beneath him. The real prize was dominance, destruction… blood. He didn’t want a match at Hardcore Heaven. He wanted carnage.
Just as he began to loosen his shirt and roll up his sleeves—darkness.
The lights cut to black. The crowd held its breath. The sudden silence was deafening, ominous. Then, a whisper.
“Welcome back.”
It sliced through the void like a razor on skin.
Then—music.
Slipknot’s “If Rain Is What You Want” began to play. Not as a song. As a ritual.
Industrial whirring and mechanical groans filled the arena. Wails, distant and agonized, crept through the speakers. Smoke crawled across the stage like rot spreading across flesh. The lights stayed dead. The atmosphere turned toxic—apocalyptic.
And then… he appeared.
The smoke parted as Omen stepped forward—his figure towering, unmoving, unnatural. The former World Heavyweight Champion. The Freak. The man whose dominance once carved a path of terror through WWFG. Last seen at WrestleMania, broken by Avari Fusion. Defeated. Vanished.
But now?
Reborn.
Omen didn’t sprint. Didn’t speak. He stared. That thousand-yard, soul-thieving stare that froze the blood of anyone who dared meet it. Slowly, he began to walk—each step heavier than the last. No pyro. No spotlight. Just presence. The kind that makes the hair on your arms rise. The kind that signals something very wrong.
The commentary team didn’t speak. They couldn’t. There were no words. Only awe. And dread.
Omen reached ringside, rounding the corner and stepping onto the steel stairs. Each footfall rang like a funeral bell tolling in slow motion. He reached the apron, then stepped over the top rope like it was made of mist. His very presence consumed the ring—like black ink spreading in clear water.
He stood there. Still. Silent. Unblinking.
The two monsters now stood face-to-face. No titles. No stipulations. Just chaos wrapped in flesh. The old guard of brutality staring down the self-proclaimed King of Hardcore.
Omen slowly removed his long black cloak. The lights above flickered violently, like even the arena was choking on his return. The air turned heavier, the tension crackling in every corner of the building.
No contract had been signed. No challenge spoken. But this?
This was happening.
Two monsters in the middle of Hardcore Heaven.
And one chilling message burned in the eyes of the resurrected Freak:
Omen isn’t done.
And now the King must address his freakish audience.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jun 11, 2025 7:42 am
Blackjack stopped rolling his sleeves up when Omen made his entrance. He tossed the mic aside and reached into his pocket. His hand came out with a chunk of blackened steel in his grip. The steel knuckles fit snuggly in his grip. He moved to a corner of the ring giving Omen the space to say his piece. Luckily for the easily bored Blackjack, Omen didn't have anything to say. So Blackjack charged at him, looking to throw a hell of a haymaker punch loaded with steel knuckles aimed at Omen's bagged face.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 12, 2025 12:48 pm
Blackjack was locked and loaded, but Omen saw all the actions taken prior to that shot he took. Ducking the strike, Omen would get behind Blackjack. Because as soon as he turned he would look for the Glasgow Kiss
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 12, 2025 1:25 pm
Blackjack was a fighter, he wasn't unfamiliar with someone avoiding his clearly telegraphed attacks, he turned quickly ready to keep the pressure on the monstrous figure. CRASH!!!
He was met with a Glasgow Kiss that shook the air in the arena. It managed to stop his follow up assault, and broke his nose, as dark crimson blood dribbled from his nostrils; but, Blackjack remained on his feet. He locked eyes on Omen's scarecrow slit eyes and laughed. He reached up and grabbed his nose, with a crunch he jerked it back in place.
"Now that's how you greet royalty!" He sounded excited, but still nasaly. He put his fists up, still displaying the steel knuckles affixed to his right hand. "Let's dance!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 12, 2025 2:14 pm
The headbutt landed flush against the nose, feeling the pushback from the move. When the Freak looked up, the nose began to bleed excessively almost instantly. But still, Blackjack was on his feet, speaking through the blood as he readied his hand once more.
Omen readied his hand as well, but not throwing anything. Inviting Blackjack to throw the first punch.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 12, 2025 3:51 pm
Blackjack was a terrible wrestler, he was clumsy with his holds, and his throws were uncoordinated; but, Blackjack was a fighter. Omen's hesitation was all the invitation the psychopath needed. Blackjack came in swinging, he started with a series of rib cracking body blows.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
