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 "Trust No One: #001" (November 29th RP vs Adrien Cochrane)

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PostSubject: "Trust No One: #001" (November 29th RP vs Adrien Cochrane)   Sun Feb 02, 2014 3:50 pm


[THOUGHT]

"I never asked for this burden to be on my shoulders. I never asked to be born with such amazing talent that every college in the area would be on my dick and want me to either be that fucking linebacker on their team, or that 230 pounder on their wrestling team that liked to break people in the middle of that circle on the mat. I never asked to be Brett Stephen Sands.

But we don't get what we want, do we? I have learned that from my past experiences. I have learned that as much as I try to be terrible, I will always be better than most. I saw that when I played football in Ohio, turning down Big Ten schools like Michigan and Ohio State in order to be considered less of a threat.

But, I couldn't even control myself enough to just be an A- player. I had to go and break the school record for most sacks and most tackles in a season...as a freshman. I had to get the most interceptions on the team, making our secondary look weak as shit. I had to go ahead and send multiple players on the injured reserve.

So, I quit football after my sophomore year and decided to just focus in school, where I ended up at the top of my class, getting my pre-law degree while doing so. Again, I was at the top and I didn't even have to use my physical power. I just had to do what I usually do and be the best.

Obviously, I didn't pursue a law degree, because I knew what would have happened next. I would have won any internship at any law firm, would have finished with the top grades, and would have became the greatest lawyer in the world. A more handsome and younger version of Matlock, where the losses for me would be slim to none in that law career. I would have been the greatest at that, too. So, the search began.

I tried to think of any careers that would challenge me. Any careers that would make me question whether or not I could be the best, the greatest at this. Then, the light bulb came on and the idea came rushing right through my head.

Wrestling. I used to love to wrestle in high school, where I never lost a single match and would rarely ever win by decision over an actual pin or something. I had given up on it, but after seeing some other people join the wrestling business that I knew, like my untalented brother Sean, and watched them win titles, like that little fucking prick Blake Jones, I knew this was the career that could challenge me since the biggest idiots could hold gold. I knew morons who shouldn't be in wrestling, like half of the EXODUS Pro roster, could be the top dogs of their companies.

After wrestling, for a couple of months, it did. I was at the bottom. I was no better than the fat bastards who set up that ring and breathed heavily while doing so. But then Rip Bash took me under his wing and made me part of America's Team. And as part of that group, that once great alliance, I was one half of the longest reigning WCE tag team champions, a one time Asylum champion, defeating the inaugural champ who eventually became the WCE World champ, and a two time United States champion, defeating future World champions and such. I was getting near that top when WCE closed down. I was right there.

Then came XWA and their development territory. I told XWA officials that I would be the top dog and I did become the top dog. I was that nasty bulldog who'd rip your fucking throat open as he decimated you inside of that ring. I became the XWA Genesis Heavyweight champion and I finally reached the top. I was finally the top dog...until it was stolen from me.

Since then, I have been fighting for two goddamn reasons. The first being that I want to prove that I am what I say I am. I am the best and I'll show you soon. The second being to show you that your heroes are nothing more than villains.

But, until then, I'll just continue to run through anyone in my path, just like I did with poor little Sylar Drake. Just like I will do with Adrien Cochrane. I will continue to do this until someone stops me.

Pray that you are that someone, because if I'm not stopped...you don't wanna know what happens."




July 2012
The Home of Brett & Melissa Sands
Cincinnati, Ohio

I set my one half of the tag titles and the Asylum title down onto the kitchen table before grabbing the nearby chair and sitting down myself. I allowed a sigh to come through my mouth as the long flights and the shows in the past couple of weeks had really been doing a damn number on me. My right elbow had taken a nasty bump during a steel cage match for the United States title that I held for less than an hour before having to defend it. My left ankle had taken an awkward twist, and I had been hit in the head with more weapons and kicks in the past two months than my entire career. But, as I looked at the titles that laid on my table, MY TITLES, I couldn't help but smile.

The last few months of my career had been the greatest. I had formed America's Team with Rip Bash, the WCE World champion and had become one half of the tag team champions with him, our reign now reaching near four months, the longest in the company. I managed to defeat that dumb cunt named Rinaika, the bitch believing she could shit gold or something. And I would have brought home the United States title had it not been for me wrestling in about half of that "title wave" show.

I heard my wife's footsteps as I heard her sandals hitting the tiles on the kitchen floor, making a little clacking noise. I quickly turned my head to see her, her long brown hair down to her shoulders, wearing a little bit of red lipstick, and smiling at me with those pearly whites. I flashed her a smile before getting up from my seat to greet her with a kiss on the lips. The bump where the baby was supposed to be had grown a bit more, Melissa then in her third month of carrying my child.


Brett Sands: How are you doing, gorgeous?

Melissa Sands: Ugh, stop. I feel so fat.

Brett Sands: You look just as beautiful as the day I met you.

Melissa Sands: Oh, you're just saying that.


I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her in closer to me for a hug. She wrapped her arms around my neck, taking comfort in the hug. She smelled like lavender, as she usually did as that seemed to be her favorite scent at the time. And there I was, holding her like a baby. I could feel her slowly push me away as I watched her look at the titles, eyes wide open, before looking over at me.

Melissa Sands: More gold?

Brett Sands: As if there was ever a doubt.

Melissa Sands: I'm very proud of you.


I grinned from ear to ear as I slowly walked over to the kitchen table and picked up both titles, holding one in each hand, Asylum in right and tag team in left. I made my slowly walk back to Melissa, looking at her once more before looking down at the baby. I kneeled down and set the Asylum title down on the floor as I took my right hand and felt my wife's stomach, knowing that in just another six months my son or daughter would be born and I would be a father.

Brett Sands: You're wrong, Mel. I did this for the both of you. And whether I'm liked by anyone else or not does not matter to me. As long as you love me and we have this kid, I'll take any terrible names thrown at me.

I stood up, grabbing the Asylum title off of the floor, as I leaned in and kissed my wife on the lips once more.

Melissa Sands: You'll always have me-

She looked down at her belly before looking back up at me.

Melissa Sands: Us. You'll always have us. Plus, you have Rip on your side at work. As long as he has your back at work, none of the trash sent your way matters.

Brett Sands: Very true. I trust Rip more than I trust any of my fucking idiot brothers. As far as I'm concerned, Rip is my brother.


Who knew I would be forced to eat those words? God, I was such a dumbass. I should have seen this shit coming. I should have prevented from ever getting so involved with this shit.




[big]September 17th, 2013
Local Bar
Sacramento, California
[/big]

Bartender: Anything else you'd like?

The bartender slides the Bud Light bottle over to me, the third time he has done so with a bottle like this. He tries to flash me a smile, but when he notices the rather sour look on my face, he wipes that damn smirk off of his face. I shake my head and scoff as I bring my third bottle of the night closer to me, ready to chug this one down just like the other two.

Brett Sands: Yeah. You can do me a favor. Fuck off.

The bartender, a man near his 40s with his light brown hair all on his head (sporting a rather ugly short haircut), looks offended. he shakes his head and immediately makes his way over to another customer who has now joined the bar area, looking for a drink.

Guess that is a bad idea. After all, I need to keep this booze flow going if I want to forget about being screwed out of my title in XWA a few weeks ago.

Fucking assholes. They bitched and complained about what I did in the company, 'cheating' to win. Though they are truly fucking idiots as I had won the title fair and square and I had been winning matches since fair and square. But, of course, the fake champion can bring his former co-workers down to the ring to help him out. Yeah, real fucking fair.

I raise up the bottle and let the beer flow into my mouth and down my throat, chugging down yet another bottle before slamming it down onto the bar and looking over at the bartender, motioning for him to get me yet another one.

And this has been my routine almost every day since I quit XWA and decided to just take a break from wrestling. Drinking until the fat Kardashian began to look good, either pick up some bitch who had so many fucked up issues I would regret it later that night or just go straight home and smoke a fucking blunt or two. You know, since I don't have to deal with a wellness policy and all that jazz.


Unknown Man: Mr. Sands?

Brett Sands: Who the fuck is asking?


The unknown man quickly makes his way into my view, sitting down to the left of me. He is a man of rather small stature, his nose is crooked and his two front teeth have been replaced by their identical golden siblings. He is wearing a trench coat over his suit as I can see the tie in nearby view. His smile does not last on his face long as he quickly goes back to replacing it a straight look on his face before offering me his right hand for a handshake.

Unknown Man: My name is not important. I am here for Mr. Edward Nair, the future owner of EXODUS Pro Wrestling.

Brett Sands: Let me guess. He sent you here to stroke my ego and try to get me to join. Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen.


I do not shake the man's hand, instead looking back at the bartender and watching him grab me yet another bottle similar to the one in my hand. The man sent here by Nair continues to keep his eyes on me, as I can see him through my peripheral vision.

Unknown Man: Mr. Nair assumed you would be a little hesitant, so he told me to start giving you whatever you wanted.

I turn my gaze away from the bartender and reposition it at the man standing next to me, curious as to what he can possibly offer me at this moment. I raise my right eyebrow to show said curiosity.

Brett Sands: Whatever I wanted? Hmmm...twice as much money as there is being offered?

Unknown Man: That's a lot of money, but yes.

Brett Sands: My own locker room?

Unknown Man: Done.

Brett Sands: You really want to sign me, don't you?


The bartender finally makes his way back around, handing me yet another bottle of beer before taking my last, almost empty bottle. I take a nice gulp of it before turning back to the man sent to come and bring me to EXODUS. I can feel myself getting slightly tipsy, my body shifting from one side to another, getting wobbly. Finally, I manage to find some sort of balance and I stare at the man, no smile, but an actual frown on my face.

Brett Sands: What if I tell you that I don't want more money? I don't need my own locker room. What if I told you to take your job offer and shove it right up your ass before telling you to get the hell out of here or threatening to break you in half? What about that, huh?

Unknown Man: Easy there, Brett. I have another thing Edward Nair said I can try and bargain with you for.


The unnamed man raises both of his hands up, trying to make sure that I don't pounce and actually follow through with my threat. I keep my right eyebrow raised as I begin to get curious once more.

Brett Sands: What the hell does that mean?

Unknown Man: Well, Mr. Nair believes that he scratches your back, you scratch his and-

Brett Sands: SPIT IT OUT!


The beer bottle in my right hand shatters into a million tiny pieces as my anger seems to get the better of me here. There are small cuts in my hand and some blood seems to be dripping out of it. This prompts the bartender to come up to me and ask if I needed help, only for me to wave him off. The bartender puts the rag away after walking away from me and the man who wanted to talk business.

Unknown Man: Any person you don't like on the roster, especially someone like Blake Jones, who-

Brett Sands: Blake Jones? The same Blake Jones who works in XWA?

Unknown Man: *while nodding his head* Yes. Yes, that's him.


I shake my head and release a heavy sigh before scoping the man sent to invite me to join the EXODUS Pro Wrestling roster.

Brett Sands: Make my contract ironclad so that I can do whatever I want. Make it so that only I can quit and that no one can fire me.

Unknown Man: That's it?

Brett Sands: And don't tell anyone I'm coming. Don't break the news of signing the greatest wrestler in the world. Ok?

Unknown Man: This can be arranged, Mr. Sands. Nice doing business with you.


The man extends his hand out for another handshake and I just laugh in his face before slapping his hand away with my left. The man looks at me, somewhat offended as I just sit there, another bottle filled with beer in my hand.

Brett Sands: I'm not shaking your damn hand! Just get the fuck outta here before I change my fucking mind and let my anger begin to do some damage.

The man doesn't need to be told twice as he quickly gets of the stool he is sitting on and quickly makes his way out of the bar, muttering something under his breath. As I sit at that stool, I push the beer bottle away from me and get up to both feet before making my own way out of the bar.

Now, my mind is set on the kind of hell I am going to put EXODUS Pro through. The kind of hell they will wish they never brought onto themselves. And the only person that can be blamed is Eddie Nair. And even he isn't on my "Not Breaking Him In Half" list. In fact, he can also take a dive right into a heaping pile of shit. The idiots should make sure and ask why I need that iron clad contract, but the fact that they didn't shows how shitty businessmen they really are.

Once I get this ironclad contract....all hell will begin to break loose.





[ON CAMERA]

The RIMAC Arena. A place where you can bring your family every other Monday to watch some of the best wrestling in the world. The really cool thing about the RIMAC, there is always a ring set up until nighttime, allowing wrestlers to get a bit more of a realistic feel as they train. Usually most wrestlers sign up for this ring time and that's what the 267 pounder in the middle of that ring did upon learning if his spot in the Honor Cup against former World champion Adrien Cochrane.

Brett Sands, a newcomer to EXODUS who has already managed to put a former San Diego Bay champion on the shelf in Sylar Drake, stands in the center of the ring. His arms are spread out and he seems to be inhaling deeply before letting out an exhale, acting as if he is smelling the air. Brett is dressed in his dark green wrestling trunks and is wearing an old Brett Sands t-shirt from WCE, the t-shirt looking as if it has gone through quite a few washes. His sandy blonde hair is spiked up once more and it looks as if he hasn't shaved in the past two or three days, the facial hair not much, but there.

After a couple of seconds, the former Heavyweight champion notices the camera and lets out a small "oh" before dropping his arms and smiling.

"Oh, how rude of me. Here you are, the cameramen who work for EXODUS, and I'm just wasting your time taking in the sights and finally breathing in the air of "competition". For those of you that still don't fucking know me, I'm Brett Fucking Sands. I'm a former Heavyweight champion. I like long walks on the beach and putting useless little shits on the injury reserve, like the former San Diego Bay champion, Sylar Drake.

Speaking of, how you feeling, Stephen? That is your real name, of course. Stephen Markowski, if I'm correct? Huh. Shame you don't use your real name, though I wonder why. Are you afraid to use your name? Are you ashamed of your name? Or are you just that fake? See, this is the kind of shit I was trying to warn people about. Some of your favorite wrestlers don't even use their real names because they are such great fakes, like your former San Diego Bay champion and one half of that plucky underdog team you love in the Young Guns."


Brett now begins to chuckle as he remains rooted at the center of the ring.

"Do you see what I was trying to tell you people when I was masqueraded as Big Brother? Do you see what I was trying to tell you? You are surrounded by fakes and you don't even know it. You are surrounded by liars, like Sylar Drake. You are surrounded by thieves, like Blake Jones who constantly steals opportunities from others more deserving because he's the fucking puppy for Jonathan Collins. Blake has always been and always will be right about that. When it comes to EXODUS, he is the goddamn dog, getting treats tossed his way, like the San Diego Bay title match, which happened after he was giving that nice treat of being the captain of War Games.

And I'm so sick of hearing about how Blake Jones is the hero of EXODUS. The underdog who managed not to shit the bed once and it only happened after the odds were so fucking stacked on his side. One member of LEGION was Wulf and he betrayed them. Another one was that fucking lunatic Zack Lifer, who ended up getting a boo boo in the middle of the match. Who else? Zero McHannon. Until he finally lucked out and managed to pick up the title, that douchenozzle was only know for getting pissed off on Twitter and being entrant number 100 into Heather Halliwell's pussy. Quite possibly the least deserving World champion of the ones we have had and if he's got a fucking problem, fuck him. Ryuji Kamigawa...last seen when he lost to Blake Jones inside a steel cage match. That's all the I have to say to make my point. And the final member was Daisuke Iwakuma, who I wouldn't even allow to carry my fucking jockstrap.

All of this shit stacked for Blake and he still couldn't win the match until every one of his teammates managed to hit some sort of move on Daisuke Iwakuma before Blake got handed the silver platter and was able to lock in that move Old Man Collins taught him while giving him countless opportunities, hoping Blake wouldn't fail. And these are the people you fucking fans cherish, not someone like me. Pathetic."


Brett begins to shake his head as he reaches into the right pocket of the trunks he is wearing and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Brett unfolds the poster to reveal the face on the poster, Adrien Cochrane.

"How about one of the men who has fed into that 'War Games victor' ego of Blake Jones? Adrien Cochrane. Former EXODUS Pro World champion. Current liar.

Before I get into about all of the lying you have done since you have stepped foot into EXODUS, let's talk about the fact that you have been a World champion, one of five, and won that match even with all that interference. Then again, Chris Marks is nothing but a bonafide little bitch and probably hits like one too. But, despite all of that, you still came out through that stronger and hit an Adrien Cutter before pinning the World champion. Bet you were riding high after that win, huh?

And then came Zero McHannon and he just took that away from you, huh? After putting up that fight for sixty minutes, you were not good enough to retain the title. Let's get that down right there. You were not good enough. YOU...WERE...NOT...GOOD...ENOUGH. And now you are looking to get your name right back into the running, though you could have easily asked for a rematch. I'm sure had you lost the rematch, you would have been given an automatic in into the tournament, since you are one of the Golden Boys and everything. But, no. Instead, you stupidly gave up your title shot and will now have to face me to get into a tournament for a shot at the title you could have gotten this week.

But, I know why you didn't, Adrien. You didn't because, whether you want to admit it or not, I'm betting on the latter, you are afraid. You are scared of failing once more because then people will begin to question whether you could ever beat Zero. Whether you should have been put into that World title match after piggybacking on Zero's victory, though the victory isn't that great considering it took two of you to make Blake Jones tap out. Yep, you're scared of failing so you decided the Honor Cup was a better idea. Oh, but you are so fucking wrong that it's almost funny. ALMOST.

You dumb bastard. You just got stuck against me. Were you hoping for a Savannah Taylor? Perhaps you were hoping for Kylar Stark or something? Someone who doesn't possess that size advantage. Someone who isn't as smart as me. Someone who isn't as brutal as I can get. Well, no soup for you. Instead, you get to face me, and when I said I was apologizing in advance over Twitter, I meant it, because the chances of you walking out with that spot in the Honor Cup...none, unless I decide otherwise. That's right. I decide the fate of this match. Your Adrien Cutter won't decide shit. Your tenacity won't do a single thing. Your veteran status...you can shove that up your ass. You see, you and this poster are very alike in this sense..."


Brett than rips the paper in two halves before ripping it into fourths. He rips it one more time as he stares at the camera, grinning. After he's done ripping the poster up, Brett tosses the paper in the air, it looking like some large confetti.

"You're both easy for me to rip apart. Yeah, I said it. Does it sound cocky? You bet your ass it does. You think I really give a shit if you have held a title here or not? Ask Sylar Drake what the answer to that question is. I heard he's got himself some sweet new crutches to hobble around on now that he is out for SIX TO EIGHT MONTHS. You see, I'm not some mindless puppet that has someone's hand stuck up my ass like that Whisper fuck. I'm not some rookie who doesn't know what he can do in that ring. I'm your worst goddamn nightmare, Adrien.

But I'm pretty sure you know what I can do by now. Or you probably didn't even pay attention and had to go watch a replay of the match to see what I can do. You'll probably mention on your camera time that you actually see as my threat, but your attempt at kissing my ass won't really work. And you probably think you can find different ways to reverse what I can do, but the fucked up thing is you didn't even see half of what I could do. You can't reverse what you don't know, Adrien. And I'm going to use what you don't know against you. Trust me on that. And if you somehow survive the hell I put you through in that match...then maybe you are tougher than I thought.

Now, earlier on I called you a liar. I put you in the same group as someone like Sylar Drake, who is probably going to be watching this next show from a hospital bed, crying. I put you in the same group as the man you don't have any real good feelings for in Edward Nair, who is probably beating his son like as if he is as redheaded stepchild. You are a liar, Adrien.

Want some proof? Go and look back at some of Adrien's promos. The proof is in his words. I mean, at least the guy can be upfront and honest instead of trying to sugarcoat shit. For example, he goes ahead and tells Blake Jones that he could be International champion by the end of the year and World champion next year when he really means that Blake isn't and will never be better than him. He can tell Zero or Heather or whoever he faces that they are fierce competitors, when he really means that compared to him, you aren't shit. He says "congratulations", but what he really means is that you probably got lucky and should count the days down until you lose.

You're such a damn fake, Adrien. Your words are about as fake as a fucking E! Network 'star'. Everything you say is bullshit, but why? Why do you try to put this facade up when deep down, you're just as bad as people think I am? At least I am always myself. I have always been this self-centered prick because this is me. I don't try and tell you some cheery bullshit when I can tell you how I can break you in multiple ways. I'm just me, but I guess some people can't be themselves."


Brett now slowly sits himself in the center of the ring, taking his eyes off of the camera for a second before looking back up at the camera, that same smirk on his face.

"It really is a shame you just can't speak the truth, Adrien. But, I guess we all can't be a Brett Sands. I'll meet you in that ring, Adrien. And when I'm done beating you into the mat, when I'm tired from kicking your ass so hard it gets tiring, I'll beat you and claim my spot in the Honor Cup. Then, maybe then, you'll drop the facade and actually say what you have to say. That is, if I don't send you to the hospital bed next to the one Sylar Drake's lying in.

But for now, just remember this folks...

TRUST NO ONE."


Brett shoots a right fist at the camera and the feed cuts off.
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