Post by Marc Polo on Oct 30, 2011 10:46:08 GMT -3
The difference found a home in Marc Polo's dark heart. He saw much ugliness in the rest. No one could match his power, he felt. The difference was his uniqueness, he believed. A special quality called him master. Everyone else sits jealous and wishing they wore his name as greatly.
Marc Polo, the future of height. He knew not of failure. All he's seen thus far is success. Though he won't admit his achievements aren't noteworthy yet, the mere fact others fail to do the simplest suggest Marc is above. As an employee of International Championship Wrestling, he desired to work as a play on the federations name: an international wrestling champion.
For the few that know him consider Marc to be far over his head. Too snobby for someone with little beneath his belt, and clouds fogging his dreams too seriously. But Marc was actually aware of this. He obsessively listens to the naysayers, feeding himself fuel to help his rigid hatred and ravenous striving. He lives for the drama just as much as the glory.
Normally beginners train excessively, something well expected, but Marc has much faith in himself for this upcoming bout that he refuses to prepare. It won't take him much energy. He has seen the locker room, watched all episodes and found his coworkers lacking all he embodies: magnitude.
Instead he spent the hours smoothly banging and binging on Mary Jane. Laughing along with a big room full of bad bitches, he felt untouchable. Hiroko deserved coming humiliation for overstepping, thought Polo. All of these jesters do. World Championships shouldn't exist vacantly when Marc Polo's in the building. They should warm his limbs with their pure gold and comely jewels.
Soon ICW will be dominated, "be leashed" by conceit; will be mounted and penetrated deeply and fully by monopoly. That is the difference. Marc Polo is different. Everyone claims yet very few maintain it. Exception never spoke so loudly before Marc Polo. Headway is the only direction, and all others can do is bear witness in utmost envy. So sad, but too bad.
Marc Polo, the future of height. He knew not of failure. All he's seen thus far is success. Though he won't admit his achievements aren't noteworthy yet, the mere fact others fail to do the simplest suggest Marc is above. As an employee of International Championship Wrestling, he desired to work as a play on the federations name: an international wrestling champion.
For the few that know him consider Marc to be far over his head. Too snobby for someone with little beneath his belt, and clouds fogging his dreams too seriously. But Marc was actually aware of this. He obsessively listens to the naysayers, feeding himself fuel to help his rigid hatred and ravenous striving. He lives for the drama just as much as the glory.
Normally beginners train excessively, something well expected, but Marc has much faith in himself for this upcoming bout that he refuses to prepare. It won't take him much energy. He has seen the locker room, watched all episodes and found his coworkers lacking all he embodies: magnitude.
Instead he spent the hours smoothly banging and binging on Mary Jane. Laughing along with a big room full of bad bitches, he felt untouchable. Hiroko deserved coming humiliation for overstepping, thought Polo. All of these jesters do. World Championships shouldn't exist vacantly when Marc Polo's in the building. They should warm his limbs with their pure gold and comely jewels.
Soon ICW will be dominated, "be leashed" by conceit; will be mounted and penetrated deeply and fully by monopoly. That is the difference. Marc Polo is different. Everyone claims yet very few maintain it. Exception never spoke so loudly before Marc Polo. Headway is the only direction, and all others can do is bear witness in utmost envy. So sad, but too bad.
