Post by turbo on Feb 2, 2009 9:57:39 GMT -5
Other matches have come and gone, yet "Turbo" hasn't paid a lick of attention. He'd find out who he has as a partner when he advances after this. His mind was in it's killzone at this time, ready to take the next steps to become that which he truly is. A champion. The big name. Himself.
While Massey was correct in the fact that "Turbo" was nothing but a shell, all it was was his handpicked shell as a disguise. The man was meticulous in his approach to his career, and exactly what he did throughout it. If he wanted everybody to know with no effort involved that he had indeed returned, he would have come through the halls, normal look, trumpets blaring.
Hence, if he wished to give those that haven't figured it out his true revelation, he'd be doing the same. Donning his helmet, concealed by a lengthy "Flaire-esque" robe, he makes his way to the production area, ready to step through those curtains for the first time in over a year and a half. The last time he was out there, some steroid'd brute did more than give him the concussion he was diagnosed with. He broke his neck, as "Turbo" had been trying to carry the clumsy bastard.
The next thing that clumsy bastard knew, "Turbo" had died in a house fire.
Strange how things can sometimes have their twists and turns, hm?
He approaches the stage area, seeing his opponent that was listed first for this matchup leave to his music. "Turbo" stepped up, peering through the curtain. He was elated that it was this time... yet, he stepped back. The opponent was still making his entrance, while Turbo...
Turbo went down to a knee. The helmet... it was stifling. Reaching up to his mask, he began to peel the tight fabric beneath the helmet away, lifting it from his head, and tossing it away. He gasps the fresh air that floods his lungs from underneath the helmet.
The robe... The robe was claustrophobic. A constantly enveloping piece of fabric that restrained him. Clumsily, his hands reached up, working the knot out of the the belt. He tugs on the sleeves, pulling them above his taped hands. He shrugs his shoulders back, as the robe falls to the ground, only to be kicked away by him.
The name... it's been misleading. It's been the identity he's forced himself under for the past six months. It's a character he he's forcefully embraced. His hands grasp a pen, scribble the correct name on a piece of paper, giving it to the production crew, who whisper the change to the announcer in the ring as his music is about to begin...
While Massey was correct in the fact that "Turbo" was nothing but a shell, all it was was his handpicked shell as a disguise. The man was meticulous in his approach to his career, and exactly what he did throughout it. If he wanted everybody to know with no effort involved that he had indeed returned, he would have come through the halls, normal look, trumpets blaring.
Hence, if he wished to give those that haven't figured it out his true revelation, he'd be doing the same. Donning his helmet, concealed by a lengthy "Flaire-esque" robe, he makes his way to the production area, ready to step through those curtains for the first time in over a year and a half. The last time he was out there, some steroid'd brute did more than give him the concussion he was diagnosed with. He broke his neck, as "Turbo" had been trying to carry the clumsy bastard.
The next thing that clumsy bastard knew, "Turbo" had died in a house fire.
Strange how things can sometimes have their twists and turns, hm?
He approaches the stage area, seeing his opponent that was listed first for this matchup leave to his music. "Turbo" stepped up, peering through the curtain. He was elated that it was this time... yet, he stepped back. The opponent was still making his entrance, while Turbo...
Turbo went down to a knee. The helmet... it was stifling. Reaching up to his mask, he began to peel the tight fabric beneath the helmet away, lifting it from his head, and tossing it away. He gasps the fresh air that floods his lungs from underneath the helmet.
The robe... The robe was claustrophobic. A constantly enveloping piece of fabric that restrained him. Clumsily, his hands reached up, working the knot out of the the belt. He tugs on the sleeves, pulling them above his taped hands. He shrugs his shoulders back, as the robe falls to the ground, only to be kicked away by him.
The name... it's been misleading. It's been the identity he's forced himself under for the past six months. It's a character he he's forcefully embraced. His hands grasp a pen, scribble the correct name on a piece of paper, giving it to the production crew, who whisper the change to the announcer in the ring as his music is about to begin...
