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Joined: 24-January 17
Last Seen: Jul 17 2017, 01:57 AM
Local Time: Jul 19 2018, 11:08 PM
6 posts (0 per day)
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Jul 17 2017, 01:57 AM
First things first, I'd like to apologize to Mina and to everyone else in the fed. I haven't been around as much as this place deserves me to be.
Second thing second, I'm requesting a leave of absence. I don't know when I'll be able to come back. I've had some rl stuff come up, and if things work out for me, I'll be packing up and moving out of my place within two months or so, but because of the situation that we're in it's not as simple as packing all of my stuff up and throwing it into a moving truck. So in short, I've really got to focus on a lot of applications and other legal issues that I'm really not qualified for, and hopefully my wife and I will be able to leave without four other people losing their home in the process.
Hopefully after I'm relocated I can come back and write up some of the cool ideas that I had for Sam and Viv and this place. Take care and I'll see you hopefully soon.
Jun 23 2017, 12:16 AM
I'm not sure what happened first; if it was the loud bang or if I had gotten my fingertips to my ears first. It was so loud, whatever it was – the percussion section of this band playing its one-note song so well that for a moment I forgot who my name was – I passed through the ship-lap and became one with the wall.
I hung there for a minute; an hour or two perhaps. No more, no less... I couldn't really tell you. When I came to there were foreigners in strange suits surrounding me. Medals of bravery and valor. I watched with glazed eyes as they carefully tip-toed through the carnage. I looked down without so much as a twitch of eye-movement. My friends, whom at the time I did not, and could not recognize, were nothing more than a pile of bodies at my feet.
Did I scream? Did I try to warn them?
I heard them laughing right before the darkness. The night rolled over me quickly like the final moments of a waning sunset. I could feel myself passing out again but the next thing I remember is having a hand on my throat literally a second later. A woman in a green camouflage jacket with a red and white cross had determined that I was somehow still alive. I couldn't hear her words, but I could damn sure read her lips pretty fuckin' well.
Two men pulled me with a grunt; and again I couldn't tell you if it was their grunting or mine. I felt the feeling of a splinter being removed from my back, except the splinter was about two inches high by four inches wide, with a sharp point somehow created by the angle of my backward trajectory and perhaps shoddy work by the carpenter. It hurt, it burned, and it didn't help when the nail at the end of the board finally passed the skin, either. I didn't quite feel it. I turned, swiveling at the hip gingerly to catch a glimpse of my back. I saw blood pour down a pair of those same camouflage green pants that seemed to fit this setting. I saw the look in the men's eyes who would catch me right before I would smash into the ground; they put me on a makeshift stretcher.
“His kidney is gone! We'll have to pack it- Get me anything you can find to fill the wound!”
“You hang in there, buddy! We're going to get you Med-Evac right away. You hear me?”
Their words, the sweetest of siren songs. Until I met her.
I should have died that day. But for some reason I wanted to live. Despite all that had happened, despite physics or religion, or simply despite the respect I should have had for my own destiny, I did not die that day. I had only superficial wounds on the front of my body; only some minor hearing loss and some joint pain to go with the six-inch by three-inch scar that runs down the right side of my back. The scar that hurts more than anything, every single god-damned day.
But I wanted this, I remind myself. I must have. In the weeks and months to follow, in lifetime of hours spent in physical therapy, and all of the time wasted in psychiatry letting them try to grind out superficial tears for my dead friends, I never became the same again. I never would have passed the physical tests, how could I have when I was a fucking Shish Kebab? ...and I never would have passed the mental tests, either. They wanted me to cry, but they were drilling in the desert. We all knew what the game was; we all knew the stakes. Besides, my tears are for my time. They aren't for mere mortal consumption.
But that's when I realized that I wanted this. Wanted this life, or second, more than anything. That must have been why I stayed alive, stayed hanging in there when all hope was truly lost.
Back then it wasn't easy to figure out. But now when I feel her fingertips on the scar on my back it doesn't hurt as much any more. She makes me lay down face down on the bed just as I was in that makeshift stretcher. She says it's something about my ass that makes her go crazy – fucking bitch. (I mean that in an entirely endearing way, so don't ruffle your frilly panties you pussies.) And hey, I don't even mind the fact that she seems enticed by my perfectly well-rounded sit cushions, it's twenty-seventeen, a woman's world for sure, and if she wants to cat call me then by all means... it's not I who would be tasked with the unenviable position of jealousy anyway...
I lived for this. I lived for her. The unobtainable... the unexplainable.
You know nothing about me, but suppose now that you do.
Apr 8 2017, 07:13 AM
I was good once.
It was a Friday. Five years ago and on a blackened night, ten thousand screaming fans jam packed into an arena so tight that one of those quivering little shits could feel what the other one was thinking.
There I was, Sammy Amos. A new kid, new blood they called me. I was more like a new breed. They thought that they had one-up on me, said that they had lived out the experiences of being in battle in a wrestling ring. Yet I know for a fact that they had never tasted battle. They never knew what it was like to hear the whistling of live ammunition or the shrieking of mortal shells whizzing right by their heads. They've never stared at the enemy through the sights on a rifle, seeing his rifle pointed right back at you. They had never kicked a live grenade, hoping that there was enough time left to send the grenade barreling back towards the fucker who threw the damned thing, hoping not to get your leg blown off in the process.
I've tasted battle. Countless times. But trust me, it's not that I've truly lost count - it's that the battles seem to all blend and blur inside what's left of my mind. I've been there and I've tasted the iron in my blood, and the fear in the blood of my enemies. I've seen best friends that were closer to me than family die within arms reach, and I've felt what it feels like to watch them die with the knowledge that you can't do anything to stop them from meeting their maker. I've felt the last heartbeat of one of my colleagues as I held it in my hand - my hand was the only thing keeping it inside of his chest.
But I was a nice guy once. Decent, too. That Friday night I made my debut into professional wrestling in a place based out in Las Vegas, Nevada; back in the States. I walked in as Sammy Amos, former Marine and new wrestler wannabe, I had promised myself and those willing to give a man with one and a half kidneys a chance to show that I was willing to be the type to treat myself like a rook, that I was going to listen and be willing to learn. I told them that, and on day one I stepped through the ropes with someone who wanted to rip my head off, so I repaid the favor in kind.
I won, of course - just not in the way that they wanted me to win. From that day forward I had been given the nickname 'Infamous', because apparently violence in the literal sense is not what wrestling promoters are looking for these days. I say: So what if I beat him to within an inch of his life? He stayed down for the three count, didn't he? The problem they had was that I was supposed to stop somewhere along the way and try to pin the fucker before he needed his jaw and orbital sockets set back into place. The problem was I made sure that fucker wouldn't get up for a decade.
So I'm not a fucking wrestler. I get it. I'll always be a former Marine. I'll always be "Infamous".
That's why I need Vivian Lee.
Oohh Sweet Vivian Lee. If she hasn't gotten the hint that she's going to be Vivian Amos soon, I know the fuck she will.
Please indulge me as I pontificate for just a moment, but Vivian Lee is my type of bitch. She's badass to the core, and I swear to God she'd have made it in the corp if she'd have chosen it. She's the type that looks like a million dollars and has a brain to back up that fine ass that follows her around all day - it's just a shame that so many neckbeard fucktards out there only see her as the stripper trying to hustle and use her body to get her way through the world. Now, don't get me wrong, I ain't disrespecting strippers, or the hustle, but Vivian Lee does what Vivian Lee wants to fucking do. The fact that she wants to do me? Oooh, I'm fuckin IN, girl. You're damn right I'm moving to Australia. Vivian Lee is the type of girl that can be whomever and whatever she wants to be. She should be the Queen of the Entire Fuckin World world right now, but she's only chosen to keep her feet planted on the ground. She's so down to Earth, and I love that yet it frustrates me so... I'm gonna give her the world and she'll just have to accept it out of good-natured pity. Cause I sure as hell don't want it!
People are nothin' but problems... but that's something you learn when everyone drops the pretenses and starts killin one another like they really want to. I've got shrapnel from a pineapple still destroying the top of my right kidney every time I take a bad bump... but that's what happens when you're lucky I suppose. Another inch over, and little Sam wouldn't be bumpin and grinding like he loves to do. I'll lose both kidneys before I lose function any day... you know what I'm sayin?
Ya'll think you know me, but you fuckin don't. I'm here to move on with my life and to start a new with the girl whom I should have never left the moment I first laid eyes on her. I'm here to rectify those mistakes and to start making sure that my girl gets exactly what she deserves. If I need to rip the heads off of all of these motherfuckers down under, then so be it. It's about time that Vivian Amos's name gets put up in the bright lights, on the grand marquee.
She's gonna pay me back with at least six to eight babies, so I'm totally okay. As long as they all look like her... Daddy's fuckin handsome as hell but he ain't no perfect ten like their hot ass Mama.
Better be payin' attention...
Mar 8 2017, 09:25 AM
I am sorry about no-showing the event. I'm not sure if this is the lamest excuse you ever heard before, but I read the date wrong. I feel like a turd but now that I know that the month goes second I won't make that mistake again.
Feb 24 2017, 01:22 AM
Wrestler Real Name: Samuel Amos
Wrestler In Ring Name: Sam Amos
Nickname (If Applicable): Infamous
Height (meters): 1.854
Weight (kilograms): 86.18
Hometown/Billed From: Alexandria, Virginia, USA
Gimmick: Foul-Mouthed, No Reservations
Pic Base: CM Punk
Ring Attire: Black trunks, Kickpads, Boots - White Wrist Tape
Strengths (3): Kicker, Agile, Technical
Weaknesses (3): Multiple Injuries, Brash, Arrogant
Finishers (Max 2):
The InfAMOS - Spike Hurricanrana
Famous Amos Shoulder Seperator - Fujiwar Armbar
Signature Moves (Max 2):
Jaw Jacking - Spinning Heel Kick to Running Opponent
The Infamous Elbow - The Peoples Elbow
Well-practiced Moves (Max 10): Basic kicks, minor technical moves, body slam, hip toss. Occasionally goes to the top rope.
Entrance Theme: "Your Betrayal" by Bullet for my Valentine
Character Background: Previously served in the United States Marine Corp before dishonorable discharge. Wrestled in a handful of federations in the States as a hardcore style brawler. After a recent stint in jail, Sam honors a restraining order by moving to Australia to be with the love of his life, Vivian Lee.