Post by cleve on Jan 11, 2022 1:40:06 GMT
It’s supposed to get as low as 17 degrees in St. Louis tonight. Fahrenheit.
Surely that doesn’t concern someone that calls Calgary, Alberta, Canada home. And, just as surely it’s downright balmy compared to the chill the sport of professional wrestling has sent down the spine of Lance Storm since he left.
We’re talking about a man who was once known as a Thrillseeker. Someone who left the great white north for the Smoky Mountains in search of new opportunities, in an effort to take that next step in his career. A man who went anywhere and everywhere he thought would lead him to that next opportunity. One promotion after another, one company after the next. A thrillseeker. That’s what they called him anyway.
LANCE STORM: Yeah, thanks.
Today our Thrillseeker was just handed a hotdog.
LANCE STORM: A hot dog.
“Enjoy it buddy.”
LANCE STORM: I’ll do my best.
Our Thrillseeker is making his way through downtown St. Louis, having just stopped off at a hotdog cart. He’s seen them before. Who hasn’t? And, if you’ve had a look at Lance Storm recently, you wouldn’t be surprised to know that he doesn’t make it a habit of eating hot dogs. Despite being away from the wrestling ring, he’s kept himself in impeccable physical condition. The kind of physical condition that doesn’t go well with hotdogs.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
So, why stop off at the hot dog cart then? Did he expect to find that metal carts started selling kale and lean protein all of a sudden? Hot dog carts sell hot dogs. That’s what they do.
“I know what’ll fix you right up. Lemme see that.”
The hot dog vendor snatches Storm’s hot dog back and globs a ton of yellow mustard over the hot dog then hands it back.
“Now, how’s that??”
LANCE STORM: That’ll do just fine.
“I thought you’d say that! If there’s one thing I know, it’s hot dogs!”
LANCE STORM: It’s best to stick with what you know, isn’t it?
“You said it, pal! I’ve never been one for straying too far away from what I know. No siree, I like to stick to what I know best!”
LANCE STORM: Hot dogs.
“You said it!”
Storm eyes his hot dog, trying to mask his concern.
“You take it easy buddy, and enjoy!”
Storm walks off, his eyes darting all around him, undoubtedly trying to find a trash can without catching the vendor’s attention.
LANCE STORM: Pretty smart guy.
With no trash can in sight, Lance is forced to keep walking with his hot dog. He’s not brave enough to eat it. Instead, he’s just holding it. Well aware it’s in his presence, but doing his best to play it off like it isn’t
LANCE STORM: He doesn’t like to stray too far away from what he knows. And, he knows hot dogs.
It’s sort of comforting when you think about it. And, it’s sort of comforting to Lance too. At least that’s what the nod he offers would have you believe. Anyway, after spotting a bench, Lance braves the frigid temperature and the presence of his hot dog and he takes a seat.
LANCE STORM: I used to know professional wrestling. I used to know it like the back of my hand. Hot dogs don’t really change. Sure, sometimes they’re made of beef. And sometimes they’re made of pork. Most of the time they’re made of pieces of all sorts of things. But, they don’t really change. At least in the way that professional wrestling does. See, if you like a hot dog, a hot dog always matters. Think about those folks who eat hot dogs professionally. Every single hot dog they eat counts. If they’re going for a record, you better believe every single hot dog is important. Hot dogs always mean something to them. Or, if someone is grilling out in their backyard, you know, grilling up a couple hotdogs, you better believe they mean something to that person. They probably lay the hotdog across so that the hot dogs get the grill marks. It all means something. It doesn’t really matter if they're made of beef, or pork or all different sorts of pieces and parts. To the people cooking, selling them out of a cart, they mean something. Nothing in professional wrestling means anything anymore. Not like hot dogs.
Storm checks around him again, making sure he didn’t miss a trash can.
He didn’t.
Instead, the hot dogs rests an arm’s length from him. Or two.
LANCE STORM: Matches don’t mean anything. Everyone does everything. Noone does anything. It’s all a jumbled, thrown together mess of chaos. And, it’s my job to sort it all out. It’s my job to put the chaos into a working … a semi working shape again. I have to. How could I not? Or perhaps better said, how could that not be my goal? Something has to mean something. It can’t all mean nothing.
He’s expressionless, really. It’s inaccurate to say the cold isn’t getting to him. Storm shudders a bit, still doing his best to no sell the hot dog’s presence.
LANCE STORM: Honestly, I don’t know Brock Lesnar well. I do know his game is a little different than mine. He’s not calculated. He probably loves hot dogs. Or, maybe he doesn’t. That’s not the point. He shows up to wreck his opponents and making things matter probably isn’t at the forefront of his mind. And if it is, he has done a good job throughout his career of making it seem otherwise.I need this sort of opponent right out of the box. I need to be reminded what it’s like to be in the ring with someone who wants to rip my head off. It’s like I said, I don’t know Brock Lesnar well, but I’m pretty sure he wants to rip my head off. I’m not in the head ripping off business. I’ll be happy to win the match and get out of there in one piece. I’ll be happy to simply make the match matter.
Getting up from the bench, Storm rubs his hands together trying to get warm.
LANCE STORM: A broken and beaten man Brock Lesnar’s opponent is not. A bewildered man Brock Lesnar’s opponent is. Chaos. Matches upon matches with no purpose and no meaning. Sure, I don’t understand it. But, I do understand what it’s supposed to be. And at Vengeance, my goal is to make it what it’s supposed to be … to lose the chaos, and bring it back to its core. Because, it’s at the core where I can stand toe to toe with Brock Lesnar.
Momentarily it looks as if the cold subsides, although it obviously doesn’t, and a focus comes across Lance’s face.
LANCE STORM: Today a hot dog vendor told me that he doesn’t like straying too far from what he knows. And what he knows is hot dogs. What I know is professional wrestling. I don’t have to stray from professional wrestling, I just have to bring the WLCW to what I know.
Nodding, then continuing.
LANCE STORM: The hot dog vendor might not like straying too far from what he knows, but what I think he’s saying is that he likes bringing people to what he knows. They come to him for his hot dogs. He doesn’t come to them. I’d be foolish to charge across the ring and bring the fight to Brock Lesnar, just as the hot dog vendor would be foolish to bring a stack of ears of corn to his customers. No, his customers come to him for their hot dogs. And, I’ll draw Brock Lesnar to the core and I’ll beat him at what I know professional wrestling can be.
They called him a Thrillseeker.
Surely that doesn’t concern someone that calls Calgary, Alberta, Canada home. And, just as surely it’s downright balmy compared to the chill the sport of professional wrestling has sent down the spine of Lance Storm since he left.
We’re talking about a man who was once known as a Thrillseeker. Someone who left the great white north for the Smoky Mountains in search of new opportunities, in an effort to take that next step in his career. A man who went anywhere and everywhere he thought would lead him to that next opportunity. One promotion after another, one company after the next. A thrillseeker. That’s what they called him anyway.
LANCE STORM: Yeah, thanks.
Today our Thrillseeker was just handed a hotdog.
LANCE STORM: A hot dog.
“Enjoy it buddy.”
LANCE STORM: I’ll do my best.
Our Thrillseeker is making his way through downtown St. Louis, having just stopped off at a hotdog cart. He’s seen them before. Who hasn’t? And, if you’ve had a look at Lance Storm recently, you wouldn’t be surprised to know that he doesn’t make it a habit of eating hot dogs. Despite being away from the wrestling ring, he’s kept himself in impeccable physical condition. The kind of physical condition that doesn’t go well with hotdogs.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
So, why stop off at the hot dog cart then? Did he expect to find that metal carts started selling kale and lean protein all of a sudden? Hot dog carts sell hot dogs. That’s what they do.
“I know what’ll fix you right up. Lemme see that.”
The hot dog vendor snatches Storm’s hot dog back and globs a ton of yellow mustard over the hot dog then hands it back.
“Now, how’s that??”
LANCE STORM: That’ll do just fine.
“I thought you’d say that! If there’s one thing I know, it’s hot dogs!”
LANCE STORM: It’s best to stick with what you know, isn’t it?
“You said it, pal! I’ve never been one for straying too far away from what I know. No siree, I like to stick to what I know best!”
LANCE STORM: Hot dogs.
“You said it!”
Storm eyes his hot dog, trying to mask his concern.
“You take it easy buddy, and enjoy!”
Storm walks off, his eyes darting all around him, undoubtedly trying to find a trash can without catching the vendor’s attention.
LANCE STORM: Pretty smart guy.
With no trash can in sight, Lance is forced to keep walking with his hot dog. He’s not brave enough to eat it. Instead, he’s just holding it. Well aware it’s in his presence, but doing his best to play it off like it isn’t
LANCE STORM: He doesn’t like to stray too far away from what he knows. And, he knows hot dogs.
It’s sort of comforting when you think about it. And, it’s sort of comforting to Lance too. At least that’s what the nod he offers would have you believe. Anyway, after spotting a bench, Lance braves the frigid temperature and the presence of his hot dog and he takes a seat.
LANCE STORM: I used to know professional wrestling. I used to know it like the back of my hand. Hot dogs don’t really change. Sure, sometimes they’re made of beef. And sometimes they’re made of pork. Most of the time they’re made of pieces of all sorts of things. But, they don’t really change. At least in the way that professional wrestling does. See, if you like a hot dog, a hot dog always matters. Think about those folks who eat hot dogs professionally. Every single hot dog they eat counts. If they’re going for a record, you better believe every single hot dog is important. Hot dogs always mean something to them. Or, if someone is grilling out in their backyard, you know, grilling up a couple hotdogs, you better believe they mean something to that person. They probably lay the hotdog across so that the hot dogs get the grill marks. It all means something. It doesn’t really matter if they're made of beef, or pork or all different sorts of pieces and parts. To the people cooking, selling them out of a cart, they mean something. Nothing in professional wrestling means anything anymore. Not like hot dogs.
Storm checks around him again, making sure he didn’t miss a trash can.
He didn’t.
Instead, the hot dogs rests an arm’s length from him. Or two.
LANCE STORM: Matches don’t mean anything. Everyone does everything. Noone does anything. It’s all a jumbled, thrown together mess of chaos. And, it’s my job to sort it all out. It’s my job to put the chaos into a working … a semi working shape again. I have to. How could I not? Or perhaps better said, how could that not be my goal? Something has to mean something. It can’t all mean nothing.
He’s expressionless, really. It’s inaccurate to say the cold isn’t getting to him. Storm shudders a bit, still doing his best to no sell the hot dog’s presence.
LANCE STORM: Honestly, I don’t know Brock Lesnar well. I do know his game is a little different than mine. He’s not calculated. He probably loves hot dogs. Or, maybe he doesn’t. That’s not the point. He shows up to wreck his opponents and making things matter probably isn’t at the forefront of his mind. And if it is, he has done a good job throughout his career of making it seem otherwise.I need this sort of opponent right out of the box. I need to be reminded what it’s like to be in the ring with someone who wants to rip my head off. It’s like I said, I don’t know Brock Lesnar well, but I’m pretty sure he wants to rip my head off. I’m not in the head ripping off business. I’ll be happy to win the match and get out of there in one piece. I’ll be happy to simply make the match matter.
Getting up from the bench, Storm rubs his hands together trying to get warm.
LANCE STORM: A broken and beaten man Brock Lesnar’s opponent is not. A bewildered man Brock Lesnar’s opponent is. Chaos. Matches upon matches with no purpose and no meaning. Sure, I don’t understand it. But, I do understand what it’s supposed to be. And at Vengeance, my goal is to make it what it’s supposed to be … to lose the chaos, and bring it back to its core. Because, it’s at the core where I can stand toe to toe with Brock Lesnar.
Momentarily it looks as if the cold subsides, although it obviously doesn’t, and a focus comes across Lance’s face.
LANCE STORM: Today a hot dog vendor told me that he doesn’t like straying too far from what he knows. And what he knows is hot dogs. What I know is professional wrestling. I don’t have to stray from professional wrestling, I just have to bring the WLCW to what I know.
Nodding, then continuing.
LANCE STORM: The hot dog vendor might not like straying too far from what he knows, but what I think he’s saying is that he likes bringing people to what he knows. They come to him for his hot dogs. He doesn’t come to them. I’d be foolish to charge across the ring and bring the fight to Brock Lesnar, just as the hot dog vendor would be foolish to bring a stack of ears of corn to his customers. No, his customers come to him for their hot dogs. And, I’ll draw Brock Lesnar to the core and I’ll beat him at what I know professional wrestling can be.
They called him a Thrillseeker.