Wolf Renegade

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Wrestler's Statistics
Strength: 7/10
Speed: 7/10
Technical: 6/10
Submission: 4/10
Charisma: 8/10
Stamina: 6/10
****: 9/10
Total: 47/70

Name: Wolf Renegade
Age: 23
Height: 6’1
Weight: 220
Hometown: Albuquerque, New Mexico
Alignment: Ummm... let’s keep it tweener for now
Entrance Theme: Disturbed “Get Down Wit The Sickness”
Fighting Style: Brawler (Throws huge punches. Not that strong but has that Oklahoma, back home, country boy power in his punches and a serious reckless abandon in fights.)

Attire
Comes to the ring shirtless with a Sin City Hells Angels biking jacket, pair of dark-blue jeans, black riding books, and black Oakley’s shades.

Weapon Of Choice
Wrench or Hammer

Entrance Description
Wolf rides to the ring on his burnt orange Harley before taking off his jacket and throwing his shades into the crowd.

Standard Strike Moves

Right Hook
Left Hook
Uppercut

Standard Grapple Moves

DDT
Suplex
Neckbreaker

Submission Moves

Headlock Choke
Arm Bar

Extreme Moves

Diving Clothesline
Flying Headbutt
“Move ****” Gets on his Harley and attempts to run you over.

Favourite Moves

Right Hook
DDT
Left Hook

Finisher(s)

Jacked – With opponent groggy hits them with 2, 3, 4, or 5 sick body shots, depending on how quick he wants to end it, before grabbing them by the head and slamming the back of their head on his knee.
H.A. – 1 armed stalling Brain Buster DDT

Wrestlers Biography/History
Member of Hells Angels Las Vegas, Wolf is a known badass with a wicked right hook and a temper that’ll flash on the earliest convenience. Got into wrestling on a bet after kicking a boxer’s ass when the boxer got mad about Wolf moving in on his girl.

Titles Held

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Sample Roleplay

Quote

Fervor Falls and John Raide is not a competition. It's a talent showcase. Fervor Falls vs John Raide is nothing personal. It's mere business. Fervor Falls vs John Raide... well, let's face it: it was bound to happen someday. Better now than never. But, chiefly, Fervor Falls vs John Raide is a warning. This is not just some hot headed brawler you're dealing with. This is an artist, a maestro in the craft of fisticuffs, surrounded by a team built directly out of a need to focus, control, and hone these raw talents. In short, Fervor Falls' entire life is being a champion.

So no, Raide, no matter how much Fervor wants to address you this week, no matter how many obsenities he wants to hurl in your direction, and no matter how he feels about coming to the defense of either me or Jason, the fact of the matter is that it's not beneficial to our cause. We do things as a team here, always have and always will, so we cannot afford to have the team jeapordized by any rash decisions Fervor might make in his current frame of mind. That is, in fact, why I'm speaking to you now. Whether the tramp that you called me, or the WOMAN that Fervor loves, the truth of the matter is that my wit outdoes yours. As such, no amount of baiting, name calling, guarantees, or regrets will throw me from my current course of action. And, just to make you feel a little bit more special than you already do, I'll let you in on a little secret.

Duke Hamilton feels threatened by you.

I might even go so far as to say that Duke Hamilton fears you. Or, he would, were it not for his little insurance policy. Were it not for this little agreement between us, Duke Hamilton would probably be looking for ways to fire you as we speak. He understands your stature, understands your skill, and understands how difficult you can be to get a handle on, to take control of. But, if there's one thing Duke handles well, it's business. He's a businessman, Raide, and, as such, recognizes the need for you to compete. Well, what better way than to have you face the younger, better, faster, and stronger Fervor Falls? What better way than to have the old man face the young man he influenced to go on this journey? What better way than to have you come face to face with, well, you. Beligerent, unrelenting, full of passion. John Raide, you're entering a match on Friday night against yourself, just much wilder. And why?

Duke Hamilton feels threatened by Fervor Falls.

But there's a difference between the two. He can tout Fervor Falls as his champion. The young kid with raw talent and unlimited potential. The kid who, at this very moment, draws asses into seats at a rate similar to the object of Baine's rage. The fighter, by both trade and heart, who would be willing to stab the heart of ANY superstar if it meant his shot at glory. You two are not all that different, Raide. In fact, other than by name and age, you're almost identical, save for one thing. Your old age has made you stoic and reflective. You walk the halls of life with a wisdom unsurpassed. You command respect from all. But we're Desiree Dawson and Fervor Falls. We don't respect our elders. We respect only one thing: power.

And you, John Raide... you don't have it. Take it from the tramp. Every dog has it's day. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. And you ain't nothin but a houndog. A blind houndog with three legs and a cleft paw. You don't measure up to my red nose pitbull.

John Raide? No way!

He'd seen the card 27 times now; had it tucked in his wallet so he could gaze at it every single time he reached for his I.D. He kept half expecting it to change, to go on to some other boring match. James J perhaps? Maybe the card really said Nick “Fervor Light” Riot. Every time he put his wallet back in his back pocket, a wave of dejection would wash over him. No, it wasn't possible. That just wasn't life. People didn't get matches like these. But then he'd reach in his pocket again and become that giddy little kid. He'd get fired up, start doing jumping jacks in the middle of the grocery store. Then he'd put it back in his pocket and feel the emptiness stop his heart like a knife edge chop to the chest. It couldn't be. Was he really this lucky? Was this really a gift from some kind of god? John Raide?

Flipping through hate mail at home, Fervor can't help but smile. It's not because he's become accustomed to hate mail, because he hasn't. But, sitting on this new, bone white couch in the living room, the television running the latest **** up news story (another little kid dies, another religious fanatic blows himself up) Fervor cannot help but be amazed at his sheer luck. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning, smile wider than ever as he brushes his teeth to pearly perfection, Fervor Falls suddenly finds religion, thanking the God he hardly ever mentions for the circumstances which befall him now.

Fervor Falls vs John Raide

This was the kind of match that could catapult anybody's career, win or loss. Just putting up a good showing against John Raide was saying something in and of itself. He was legendary, a champion everywhere he went, a force everywhere he stepped foot, and a man with a remarkable ability to make the most uninteresting of competitors draw forth their deepest seeded, farthest reaching, heart felt best. He had that aura to him, almost a punk rock quality. But it was better because he meant much more than an opportunity to get over for Fervor.

This was his hero. This man was his favorite. Fervor Falls had got into wrestling because of him. He knew how to Fade to Black, every last one of them. He knew how to make sure a mother fucker got OWN3D and all that. This was beyond a dream come true. This was it. There are two things every athlete who's ever been born wishes for. The chance to win the top title in their sport, and the chance to face their hero, their idol, the one they've modeled their game after, in competition.

It was in this very frame of mind that Fervor exited the house that morning on his way to the gym. In that very frame of mind that he had the best training session he'd had in years. In that very frame of mind that was **** dashed the instant he saw his girlfriend, Desiree Dawson, cutting HIS promo.

Sitting in front of the silver screen, projector to his side, notepad in his lap and forefinger to his dome, Fervor simply wonders... how could she? Why would she? She'd said no more than a month before that his words were what got them places. Why wouldn't she let him address his idol? The conflicting feelings of confusion and rage bubble inside Fervor's chest like acid reflux as he stares at film he's already seen, already studied. John Raide. John Raide. John Raide. John Raide.

Fervor wants to stand up right now and tell her that was bullshit. That the people pay to hear him talk. Wants to tell her right now that the ratings only come like they do because of how well Fervor talks. It's his mouth that's important and the fans want to see it shut. **** a plan. There would be no plans without him. Desiree Dawson would still be trying to become a model. Jason Jones would be somewhere cast by the wayside, never having trained a wrestler worth mention. Blackout would be doing as they had in the ratings battle with Showdown before he showed up, but, then again, maybe they wouldn't be able to recover from the loss of a ratings force such as Eddie Laurent. Maybe with Laurent gone, Raide would see no need, no purpose, and no future in coming back to wrestling. Chevelle would've said “**** it!” and let us all think he was still dead. Without him, without Fervor Falls, none of the **** that's become so important now would even matter. Stoner would still be parading around like the potent, purple puffing, **** footing mother fucker that he is, all while holding the **** Title that Fervor Falls no claims as his own. Hell, wrestling would be shitty without HIM, not Desiree, which begs the question: why does he even need her if this is the way it's gonna be?

But he already knows the answer to that question, the nervous tension built up in his body all dissipating with a defeated sigh as his chest flattens faster than a popped balloon. Without a plan, there would be no Fervor Falls. He'd have got into the business, had a match or two, and proceeded to flat line before he really ever got a chance at success. Sure, doing things his own way had worked before, to an extent, but they'd only gotten him in further trouble: trouble that Desiree would, then, manage to get him out of.

Fervor, his face sagging like the man **** on a British wrestler, jots down a few notes, more from memory than what he sees on the screen. 'Unmatched instincts. Been in every situation. Don't do **** twice, he'll **** catch you.' before letting his pencil clatter to the floor below him. Standing up and taking a look at the gray walled theater, the fixings his athletic career had bought Gepeto, Fervor leaves his notebook and the projected images of John Raide at work behind him, choosing instead to walk through the black rectangle on the back wall, which actually turns out to be a doorway, leaving Raide as he executes Fade to Black, circa 2006.

Fervor steps into this seldom seen hallway, the walls lined with glass cases, each holding several trophies and awards. A UWE issued replica of Fervor Falls' **** Title sits in one of these cases, as well as the receipt for his first UWE paycheck. Ignoring all of this, Fervor walks down the hallway, his feet colliding with the yellow linoleum and echoing through the hallway, sounding more like the trot of a giant than the march of a hot head. Fervor strides past the office, where Desiree sits, her hand on her head, shuffling through papers. She's beautiful, of course, her now blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like the most serene of waters down a brook in the middle of the forest. He strides past the training room where Gepeto's old, yet still sturdy figure perches in a sitting position on the edge of the ropeless ring, finger pointed and mouth barking orders at two particular students as one lifts the other in a Fireman's Carry. He strides straight to the doorway at the end of the hall and continues through it, stepping into the warm, painfully bright afternoon of Orlando, Florida.

Fervor breathes deeply, his face calm and collected, before that all goes to hell. His face contorts violently into a snarl of sorts, eyes narrowed like a stalking gremlin, before he let's loose the breath in a raspy, blood curdling shout.

“**** THIS ****!!!!”

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