JJ Johnson

I'm just stealling the word "fisticuffsmanship"

Coffin Fodder-Cradle of Filth

That was my eviler twin. Or, for an excuse more based in reality, this promo means he can talk full-time. That one promo before Pretz-JJ really took the starch out of him.

Doctor James Henderson sighs. It's been a very, very long day. He could have been home, should have been home two hours ago. His shift ended at 9, and it's a 45-minute drive back to his home in Ann Arbor. But just as he was leaving, the phone rang. When he answered, a calm voice with the slightest Ohio accent had been on the other end, with the same drone that Henderson's four-year-old son gets whenever he's reading something out loud. Before the man had even finished, Dr. Henderson knew what the letter was about, and now here he is. Instead of in Ann Arbor, in his bed, he's in Detroit, in his office, waiting for quite possibly his most important patient. He sighs again, then looks at his watch. 11 o'clock. Henderson rolls his eyes. "If he isn't here in fifteen minutes, I'm leaving, and he can go keep someone else awake." But no sooner than those words leave Henderson's mouth, there's a knock at the door. Henderson takes a moment, then puts on his best pseudo-friendly smile before saying "Come in." The door opens, and in walks JJ Johnson. There's no sign of the title that usually never leaves its position slung over Johnson's shoulder, but then again, a man would look rather foolish carrying 15 pounds of gold around with him. And he would BE rather foolish to carry a valuable item in plain view in downtown Detroit. The Canadian sits down, and there's an awkward silence. Henderson looks down at his desk, around at the walls, at the clock (which now reads 11:04. Henderson swears under his breath). Johnson just stares a hole through the doctor. Finally, Henderson breaks the silence. "So, it's been ten months now." says Henderson, prompting a calm nod from Johnson. "Almost eleven. How's your throat feeling?" Johnson thinks for a moment, then makes the "so-so" hand signal. Henderson smiles a little at this. He's been going on the "nods, hand signals, notes scribbled on paper" system of communication with Johnson since the injury, and it'd grown very tiresome after a few weeks, since it was with great difficulty that Henderson was able to get anything more than a grunt, or a shrug out of the former UFC Heavyweight Champion. There's another awkward silence, and then Henderson breaks the silence once more. "I've got very good news." says Henderson, beaming, as Johnson leans in closer with an eyebrow cocked. The doctor smiles again, as if he finds Johnson's interest amusing. The look on Johnson's face changes from interest to one that blatantly says "continue stalling, and see how amused you end up". The smile drops, and Henderson continues. "Like I said, it's been nearly 11 months since the accident-" At this, Johnson snorts. Henderson knows by now that Johnson is convinced Liddell was gunning for his throat from the start, but continues talking. "-and by now, the damage is largely superficial. You haven't been talking lately, because you haven't been able to take time out of your schedule to see me, and thus you haven't known whether or not you can speak." Johnson's eyebrow arches back up, almost as if he doesn't believe what the beady-eyed little man in front of him is saying. "You can talk, but there are some conditions." says Henderson, getting a bit enthused now. "One, plenty of water. Probably should drink a bottle for every ten minutes or so that you speak, to prevent your throat from drying out and scarring again. It's fine if your throat is dry at other times, but you want it wet when you talk." Johnson nods. Water is not a problem, seeing as how Jay insists on drinking a gallon before every title defense. "Makes it that much easier to sandbag", he says, although Landon and JJ are skeptical as to whether or not a gallon makes any difference. "Two, no raising your voice." Henderson continues. "At all. If you can feel it in your throat, you're too loud. No yelling, no screaming, no loud talking. No raising your voice, period." Again, Johnson nods. He didn't raise his voice much before the injury, so like water, it shouldn't be too hard to do this. Henderson stands, and extends his hand over the desk, not-so-subtly glancing at the clock as he does so. It's 11:15 now. Henderson sighs, and feels a firm grip on his hand as Johnson also rises. The SWF Cruiserweight Champion makes his way to the door, Henderson FINALLY packing up, and opens it. He's halfway out before he pauses. Henderson looks up from his packing. "Yes, JJ?" Johnson hesitates a moment, as if deliberating what words to use in his first complete spoken sentence in almost a year. Finally, he decides. "You could've called me, you son of a bitch." And with that, Johnson is out the door, on his way to the airport to catch his flight to Bismarck. Henderson smiles for the fourth time in that fifteen minutes, and goes back to his packing as he shakes his head. "And they say eloquence is a lost art."

1. Longdogger Pete is the face, and the play-by-play of the announce team. The extent of his character is that he's from Miami, and that he says "bid'ness" instead of business. Alternate names: Pete, the Longdogger, LDP, the Miami Menace Suicide King is heel, and color. He is also the dickest of dicks, lord of all things heel, and generally not a very nice person. Usually refers to Pete as "Drain-Clogger", or something equally witty. Or preferably more witty. Alternate names: King, the Gambling Man, the Heartbreaker 2. To quote a certain someone, "the cage is as tall/the aisle is as long/the table is as close as it needs to be for your spot to work." That being said, I don't think an official set design has ever been decided on.

Manson must win by MANSONALITY from now on.

Crimson Skull would be OUT of costume as his costume.

Ward is Lex Luger. Just take everything out of your moveset except the Polish Hammer and the Torture Rack. I shall be a Mountie.

Or better yet, you don't give away arguably your biggest gimmick match.

And TORU is a high-flying heavyweight. I can see where you messed up.

Call it a hunch, but you should probably change TORU-WC back to cruiserweight rules. Just a hunch.

Seconded.

BREAKING KAYFABE OMG. But in all seriousness, bummer. Hope you feel better.

Haffy lost to Manson, actually. He's not won every single SWF match he's ever had.

I saw them, actually. Benefit of being in the "marker fraternity". Stick to poker.

Drea, I can send you a match that has Castagnoli and Cannon in it. They're both marvelous to watch. It also has Chris Hero.

*whoosh*

Pretty self-explanatory, really. I'll have to think on it, but I'll post mine eventually.

Ha! I get it! "Impact"! *ahem* But in all seriousness, yeah, this could screw some things up. Like DA said, wrestlers might not be able to make it, attendance might go down, show might get cancelled altogether. Although it's my understanding that Orlando's relatively far in-land? Correct me if I'm wrong on that, but I think things will turn out fine. Well, I hope they do.

"The Anarchist" Arik Cannon is a US indy wrestler, master of the Shining Enzuigiri he calls the "Glimmering Warlock". And he's a dick.

I know KOJI wrote.

... Ahem.

The Japanese table gets great mileage, but falls apart at the slightest touch.

I wish I hadn't gone with the whole "mute" thing. You can only write "watching film" promos for so long, and it left me with more speed than I particularly care to have, and don't really use.