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Thread: Top Dog

  1. #1
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    Top Dog

    Name*: Top Dog
    Nickname: TD
    Age*: 27
    Hometown: Detroit, MI
    Height: 6'8"
    Weight*: 295 lbs
    Entrance Music: "I Stand Alone" Godsmack
    Gimmick*: A tough brawler that has spent his life living in the back alleys of Detroit, Top Dog has entered the CWA to do the only thing he knows how...fight.
    Disposition*: Heel

    Wrestling Style*: Brawler
    Wrestling Abilities*: (Rank from 1-5, 1 being your best) Speed, Technical, Power, Brawling, Charisma.

    Brawling, Power, Charisma, Technical, Speed.

    Signature Moves*: (Minimum of Two, Maximum of Five)

    Dog Bite (Top Rope DDT), powerslam, big boot, pumphandle slam

    Finishing Moves*: (Maximum of Two)

    The End (One handed chokeslam)

    Previous Expierance: Used to wrestle in the NLW. Former TV and World Heavyweight Champion there. After the fed folded under, TD eventually spent all his earnings and soon found himself living back in the alleys of Detroit. more...

    Picture*: (150x150, non-animated. If blank one will be chosen for you.) Chris Benoit picture will suffice fine.


    (sorry if this is long, but I like to write out details promos/RPs)

    *The scene opens up in a dark alleyway. It’s late at night in this eerie part of town, but even if you can’t see much, you still notice a lot of different things. High winds howl down the narrow passageway, growling down like a pack of wolves. Police sirens can be heard ringing in the background, and not just 1 siren, but multiple ones singing together like a beautiful opera. Gunshots ring somewhere off in the distance, but since no screams of terror can be heard afterwards, we assume nobody is afraid of them; they are….accustomed to it. A dim light glows in the center of the landscape, and upon further inspection it can be seen that a large metal barrel, open on top, has been set ablaze near some of its inhabitants. Luckily for them, it’s not a cold winter evening, but rather a mild summer night…something you don’t see for many months out of the year in Detroit, Michigan. The city once proudly heralded as “Mo-Town”, and the home of famous personas such as Joe Louis, Aretha Franklin, and Francis Ford Coppola are now home to the lowest scum in the country. The streets that were once filled with happy, singing people in the hey-day of Detroit-born Soul music of the 1950’s and 60’s has now been reduced to a pile of condemned buildings, car fires, and multiple homicides. Among those citizens of the town is the man walking up towards the camera. He is faintly seen because of the glow of the cigarette dangling from his mouth. His face, however, cannot be seen as it is looking down and covered by a black hood. The hood is attached to his black sweatshirt, an unusual attire choice on this mild summer eve. He walks slowly….patiently…up towards the camera and right around it, barely even acknowledging its presence. He begins to speak, to nobody in particular, as the camera follows him down the alleyway.

    Man: It’s been many years….it almost seems like an eternity ago, or another life. Back then, I was known as the king of this piece of shit town. A little history lesson for you kids. All those years ago, growing up just down the street on an equally slummy place as this street, I ruled it all. I was only 14 when my parents died. I watched them get gunned down right here on Woodward Avenue in downtown Detroit, Michigan. We were just walking home……Home. I haven’t had a place called home in years. There was a time back a few years ago, when I was steadily employed…but that was ages ago. The sons of bitches who gunned my parents down were unknown to me, and to almost everyone else. Because they were driving an old Lincoln towncar that rainy night. They decided it would be fun to fire off a few rounds of their new 9mm handgun that October evening. And, as fate would have it, the random targets of their shooting practice were my mom and pop.

    *The figure walking now turns a corner, entering out into a quiet street. No automobiles would dare travel down this part of town. Debris litters the street, and a few homeless people are even laying down right in the middle of it, oblivious to the rest of the world. For now, the weather is nice this time of year, and they are happy. But when the winter comes, these people will be forced into the deepest corner they can find, hiding themselves from the elements of Mother Nature. The hooded man takes a drag from his cigarette, puffs out a cloud of smoke before speaking again. He’s gathering his thoughts. He looks up at the night sky, and for a moment…just a moment! can see the glimmer of his cold, black eyes. His head bows down again, and he continues walking to a destination unknown.

    Man: Since the age of 14, I’ve been alone. I’ve stood alone, with nobody but my own two feet to stand on. Our house was quickly sold when my parents passed away, leaving me with nothing. Sure, they offered me a foster home, but I couldn’t be bothered with that. The streets is where I went, and I never really left them. Except for that short period of time a few years ago. But I’ve since returned to where it all began. I grew up on these streets, learned to survive here. I learned how to fight here, or maybe it could be called brawling. Whatever the case, it all started with a man named Josh Allen back around 2001.

    *The man speaking comes to the end of the street, and is faced with a dead end. He looks around, possibly for someone or something, and sighs. He drops the cigarette after taking one last puff and stomps it out with his black boot. After blowing out the smoke from his cigarette, he drops his hood. As the smoke clears, his facial features come into view for the first time. And it is one carved straight out of a horror film. Scars are forever engraved in his face, one running vertical up the entire length of his right cheek. His eyes are bloodshot, possibly from drugs, or possibly from a lack of regular, comfortable sleep. His hair is jet black, and thrown around like he just went 12 rounds with a Force 5 hurricane. He is unkempt, dirty, and scary. Similar scars are seen now on his arms; this man has been in his fair share of battles. He jams his hands into the deep pockets of his black jeans and turns around, heading back the way he came. His head is still bowed down, looking intently at the broken sidewalk as he moves.

    Man: They used to call me the “Top Dog” around these parts of town, because I seemed to rise to the top of the pack of these lowlives. Years after my parents died, I had become skilled enough in fighting that nobody messed with me anymore. Gangs respected me. Criminals idolized me. And rapists feared me. That nickname stuck when Josh Allen found me on these streets, and when some pest named Johnny decided he wanted to fight me that day, JA’s limo drove by at the right second. Johnny lost a few pints of blood that day, but for me, that was also the day I signed my first wrestling contract. I knew nothing about the sport. Ringropes….canvas…a timekeeper? This wasn’t what fighting was about. But it was a paycheck, and that’s what was most important. I stayed on for a while there. Take a look at the history books kids…I was one of the greatest. Hell, I even wrote a best-selling book about my story at one point. And the pinnacle of my career came at the end of my run when I became NLW World Heavyweight Champion. Nothing could have stopped me then. But…all that was a long time ago. I fell back into the shitter. The company closed down at one point, and for the first time in a few years, I was back with no job. The book money eventually went away. I sold the million dollar home I had in Birmingham, Michigan. I had to sell the suits and cars just to have enough money to eat. Eventually, it was gone. All of it. I was back right where I started…in this shithole of a city.

    *He murmurs hello to a bum on the street. His gap-toothed smile is genuine; the people around here enjoy his company. He is liked here. This is….his home. Top Dog turns back into the alleyway that he earlier emerged from…his alleyway. He shakes the hand of a man barbequing a half-eaten hotdog with a stick a few inches above the burning metal barrel. Quiet chatter can be heard in this alleyway. The people here are like a family, and Top Dog is their “leader”. But soon, he won’t be anymore. The man known as Top Dog looks directly into the camera to deliver the end of his informal interview.

    Top Dog: At first, everyone hated me. I was a street walker like them, but left it all for mansions, money, and the high life. I had forgotten about them and this shithole city when I left for NLW, my past was but a distant memory. When I returned, nobody would even look at me. It took time, but now I have regained my position as the Top Dog of this place. But, once again I am on my way out. But this time, it will be different. CWA is going to be my new home now. But I won’t forget my roots. I’ll be back to help them out, because they are….my family. So now I address the rest of this to you, the CWA roster. Watch your backs, all of you. Top Dog….has arrived in the Clique Wrestling Alliance. But I won't be involved in any "Cliques" here. Remember this: I Stand Alone. Look around, there isn’t a television to be seen here. I have no clue who any of you are, and I don’t care. To the few that may have seen old tapes of me, spread the word of Top Dog. I was the “Rookie Killer” long before a 3rd generation kid stole my gimmick. I am a former NLW champion. I Stand Alone. I’ll bring my baseball bat to the ring, and if you cross my path, I’ll start swinging. I don’t care if you’re the good guy, the bad guy, the announcer, or the head of the company. Stay out of my way, because I am here for one reason only: to destory those in my path, including YOU. Until you see me in that ring, the pleasure has been…all yours.

    *With those last words, the feed cuts out, and you are left watching the same thing you were at the opening of this feed….complete and utter blackness.

  2. #2
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    Re: Top Dog

    January 28th 2009

    *The scene opens up to white. Pure white. When the camera comes into focus, you can see there is more darkness than light, even with all the white in view. White is just the absence of light anyway, but in this case we eventually see the white is snow. Snow covers the surface of everything you see: the ground, the buildings, window sills overlooking an alleyway, trash bags stacked up outside a back door. In the middle of all the white, you can see black. The man in black is in center screen – Top Dog. As we’re used to seeing him, he is dressed in black from head to toe, but this time he has a few more layers on him. It is January in Detroit Michigan, and the dead of winter has found this place. Which isn’t the slightest bit ironic, because this part of town is the most dead of them all. People don’t live in these parts; they struggle to survive here. With a temperature of -2 degrees Fahrenheit (-20 with wind chill), you’d have to be braindead to want to be outside at a time like this. Or homeless. Even though Top Dog is now steadily employed, he’s hardly earned enough of a paycheck to get him inside somewhere warm. Therefore, he stands in the middle of an alleyway surrounded in fallen snow, standing mere inches from a fire made with trash, rotting wood, and roadkill. Near him are two older men; both with grizzly beards and ragged clothes – these men have no homes either, it’s apparent. The two men are shivering, but Top Dog doesn’t move much…he is concentrating on other things.

    Man 1: So TD, you gettin’ ready for your first match in the CWA?

    Man 2: If I were you, I’d be at that arena now, even if it is days away. You could sleep in the boiler room or something, at least you could get away from this cold.

    Top Dog: Ted, Frank….my plane ticket hasn’t arrived yet. A CWA official is supposed to drop it off to me in a few days. So for now, I wait.

    *Top Dog seems distant, he is talking not to the men in front of him, but rather the wind that howls by on this bitter cold night. His eyes aren’t even locked on his friends. This is his way of preparing for a fight…sanctioned or otherwise. He prepares mentally, thinking of a strategy to win. He doesn’t lose fights often, and isn’t going to start now. Of course, previous Top Dog fights included opponents like “Sandy” Rivers, the leader of the Crypts, a local gang in town. Or who could forget Charlie, the drug dealer who stepped on TD’s toes accidentally. Top Dog doesn’t take kindly to rude people – he sets them straight instead. These fights didn’t have a time limit, and you weren’t declared the loser because you used a nearby weapon. This is a new challenge for him, but because he is rewarded with money, quite a lot of it, he will adapt to this new method of fighting.

    Frank: So who’s this joker that’s stepping in the ring with you again? Rick Stone?

    Top Dog: It’s RICH Stone, Frank. Thanks to the CWA giving me some tapes to play in the downtown senior center, I was able to watch his past work. He’s not that special, really. I’ve gone up against bigger and tougher opponents during my past here in Detroit. He’s a former MMA fighter I guess. Which intrigues me; we have similar styles of fighting. This isn’t going to be a technical match, I don’t think. I’m looking forward to feeling my fist connect with another’s skull again. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a fight.’s like riding a bike, it’ll come back to me real quick.

    *Ted shivers some more and scoots even closer to the poorly built fire, getting his nose close enough to be barbequed. He doesn’t move back though, possibly because he’s already been frostbitten. TD takes a bite of a hamburger bun he sees nearby. No clue if it’s been half-eaten or not. He jams his gloved hands in the pockets of his thick jacket. He’s fortunate to be well clothed on this cold evening…with a jacket he stole off the back of some punk kid last winter. But that matters not. His attention turns back to Rich Stone. Thinking of something besides the cold keeps his mind off things. If only his friends were that lucky.

    TD: Rich Stone likes to call himself the future of wrestling. I suppose that’s valid, because maybe in the future he will have what it takes in wrestling. He sure doesn’t have it now. His debut match was a fatal fourway, and he was pretty unimpressive. Rich was eliminated first and got in practically no offense during it. He was an afterthought as far as anyone watching was concerned. He won’t even be remembered as impressive in his debut match, which is the opposite of what you could say for me.

    Ted: TD, good buddy, I predict a beating by you to Stone. You’re gonna cement your legacy into the CWA, starting with your first massacre….I mean match.

    TD: Thanks for the pick-me-up Ted, but you’re telling me something I already know. Call me confident, but I don’t see anything from Rich Stone that impresses me. He had his spot in the first match of the first Adrenaline Rush..and he blew it.

    Frank: Well, he did win his match last week…

    TD: Against who? Eoghan O’Neill? Is he even on the roster? I’ve never heard of him before. It was probably a way of boosting up Rich’s confidence after losing the week before. And before the match, I had the pleasure of watching him speak from the locker room. He tried to give us all a lesson about Destiny, and a spelling lesson too, apparently. By the time he got to “E”, I was asleep. I woke up in time to hear that Rich Stone thinks the word “Why” actually starts with the letter “Y”. I hope Rich is listening now though, because I’m going to answer the question he dragged on for a half hour about: What is Destiny? Rich’s destiny in the CWA is to lose. Plain and simple. He was hired into the CWA as a stepping stone for greater fighters than him. I plan to take full advantage of that on January 28th. Further proof of Rich’s destiny? So far in his career, if you could call it that, he’s been the curtain jerker of Adrenaline Rush. Those poor fans had to sit through a Rich Stone match twice in a row to start off their evenings. If Rich Stone is the Future of Wrestling, then that makes me The Present of Wrestling, because I’m going to be a gift to Ricky Stone. And when he meets this gift in the ring, he’ll see that the pleasure…(TD looks directly into the camera he has been ignoring this whole time) ….Rich Stone…has been all yours.

    *Top Dog lights up a cigarette and puffs on it, content with his beliefs on the outcome of their upcoming match. He throws an arm around a shivering Frank, briefly warming up the old homeless man. A slight smirk forms on the lips of Top Dog as the camera fades. It’s the first time in years he’s shown a hint of a smile, because for once, the man known as TD is finally happy.
    The Real Rock N' Rolla

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    Re: Top Dog

    June 3rd 2009

    *The scene opens to a shot of a giant red logo. The logo is a wheel with a large wing extending behind it. To those familiar with it, the logo is that of the Detroit Red Wings, the local hockey team of Michigan. This isn’t just any logo though…this is the logo that adorns center ice in Joe Louis Arena, the home of the aforementioned team. The camera zooms out to show we are broadcasting from an empty ice arena. Red seats line rows upon rows in the stadium, and the white glass panels around the rink glisten anew as the camera reflects off them. The place is quiet and clean without a person in sight. The silence is broken by a loud humming noise. Two giant panel doors open at one side of the rink and a large zamboni enters the rink. The giant machine begins cleaning the sheet of ice on the rink, and is being driven by the famous Al Sobotka. Another man is sitting on the front of the vehicle as it drives around and around: Top Dog. Dressed in his trademark all-black clothing, TD dons dark jeans and a long-sleeve plain black t-shirt to match. He is holding a recording device, and seems to be speaking into it, like a diary of sorts. As he speaks, his breath can be seen due to the cold temperature in the ice stadium. Al looks on and smiles…these two are friends.*

    Top Dog: The last few months have been a blur to me. It’s almost as if I’ve been floating through. Events have transpired; some I’m proud of, and others I’m not that proud of. I’ve been defeated, and I’ve been victorious at times. However, the cloud has disappeared…the fog has lifted. I can see clearly now: I have hit complete rock-bottom, and now the only place to go is up. How fitting is it that I’m here in the Joe Louis Arena, home of the defending NHL Stanley Cup Champion Red Wings?

    Al: GO WINGS!!!!!!!!

    Top Dog: (ignoring Al) For years after hockey great Gordie Howe retired in 1971, this team was known as the “Dead Wings”. Their record was pathetic, they had no talent whatsoever, and they were laughed at by the fans. In some ways, this is how I feel. Luckily for the Red Wings, they rose back to greatness in the 90’s and haven’t looked back since. And, tomorrow night, they will begin their quest in Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals to try and hoist the trophy for the second year in a row.

    *Top Dog hits the “stop” button on the recorder, reflecting. Al swings around the zamboni and begins cleaning the ice just over the logo. He’s halfway finished, and seems content just listening to TD’s ramblings while the whirr of the ice cleaning machine continues in the background. Top Dog looks up at the Joe Louis Arena scoreboard, now unlit, and ponders the similarities between him and his hometown team. The man in black presses “Record” on the recorder, ready to continue his monologue.

    TD: They are four games away…..four games….much like me, I believe it’s gonna take four wins before I get back where I need to be. I plan on starting that climb at Hostile Takeover. When I’m in the ring with 19 other combatants on Wednesday, the Red Wings could be one win away from hoisting the cup in their best-of-7 series. In a 24 hour span, I believe we could see Top Dog getting his arm raised in well as Nicolas Lidstrom raising his arms with the Stanley Cup in hand. Two Detroiters being victorious next week..I like the sound of that.

    *TD presses “stop” on the recorder, satisfied with his thoughts, and slides the electronic device into his jean pocket before turning around to face Al. The driver, only famous to those who regularly attend Red Wings games, seems content just cleaning off the ice. He smiles up at TD, but isn’t met with a smile back – that just isn’t Top Dog’s style. He has many enemies in the CWA…but here in Joe Louis Arena, he has a friend.*

    Al: So TD, because your match is on Wednesday, I’ll be able to catch it. You have a 20 man Battle Royal I hear. Well, even though you’ll all be in the ring at the same time, I think this match favors you. I mean – look at you…you’re a beast of a man. There’s no way those guys will be able to lift that massive frame up and over the top rope and onto the floor. Do you know some of the guys you’ll be in the ring with?

    TD: No, Al. I may have been in the ring with some in the past, but I don’t remember. Like I said, the past is a blur. As far as I’m concerned, this is the new beginning for Top Dog. I’m on the opening match of the card. That’s where they put the guys that are just lucky to have a spot and have virtually nothing to show. Well..I’m going to prove to whoever it takes that I belong in the last match of the night. It may take weeks, it may take months, or it may take years…but just like the Red Wings, I deserve to be a champion.

    Al: Quite the stretch goal you have there, TD. It’s a rags-to-riches story if I’ve ever heard one myself. Some punk kid that got left alone on the streets of Detroit growing up to be the World Heavyweight Champion? If that happens, you oughta write a book!! And I’ll gladly go on book signing tours with ya, Doggy!

    *Top Dog cracks a smile, something seen only once in a blue moon. This dark soul doesn’t have many bright spots in his life, but his outlook appears to be changing. He has focus now – he has a goal. He can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the light is the World Heavyweight Championship.*

    TD: Books really aren’t my thing, considering I was never taught how to read. But, I’ve managed. That’s me: I’ve always managed to come up on top no matter the situation in front of me. Maybe it’s destiny that I’m put in a match like this on June 3rd. Not one, but TWENTY men vying to be better than me. This match is gonna be a 29-on-1 massacre, Al. And I’m gonna be the one doin’ the massacrin’.

    *Top Dog hops off the zamboni 8 feet to the ice below. His massive frame doesn’t crack the ice of Joe Louis Arena, although nobody would be surprised if it did. He gives a quick wave to Al before departing towards the open bay doors reserved for the zamboni.*

    TD: I gotta go..I have a flight to Tokyo to catch. But good luck to the Red Wings this week!

    Al: I’ll give ‘em the message, Dog. And good luck to you as well!!!

    TD: Oh, and Al? The pleasure…? It’s been all yours…

    *TD steps through the darkened tunnel leading to the backrooms of the arena. His figure dims to black as he steps out of the bright lights of the stadium, leaving Al alone to clean the rest of the ice. He whistles while he works, and smiles at a departing Top Dog, confident that he can successfully begin this new stage of his career.*
    The Real Rock N' Rolla

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