Post by anthonyksavage on Jun 24, 2021 14:14:37 GMT -5
Every trade has a tool-set. Mechanics have wrenches, welders have torches. You get the drift.Me…heh…*holds up his hands* these are multi-purpose tools.
Tony Savage is NOTORIOUS for being a borderline walking billboard. Almost thot-pocket level. The guys sells everything from Gucci to taking in a couple hundred and a free plate of sashimi for talking a selfie with the restaurant staff. Can one blame him for capitalizing on a naturally gorgeous face and a body he tortures himself to maintain. (He doesn’t run nearly 10 miles a day because it’s fun.)
But those hands tell the truth about what he is, and does for a living.
He didn’t need a fancy backdrop or exotic locale for this shoot. Hell, that black backdrop and the simple but sturdy bench was perfect, because it made him the focal point, something you couldn’t take your eyes off. When he raised his hands for public consumption, they were a far cry from the rest of the package.
They were large, with fingers slightly gnarled and knuckles that looked like skin was wrapped over chunks of asphalt. Bone turned to brick from years of calcifying from repeated impact…
From pounding on thing and people until they stop resisting!
When he punches each of his palms, it sounds like drywall being bludgeoned instead of flesh. There’s a reason he doesn’t hand model.
These hands were hoists, lifting up everything from Golden Gloves to trophies to 4 World Championships across the industry. They’re also money counters, touching 9 figures every time I log into my bank accounts or handle a rack.
They hold my wife and son, making them comforters. They turn a wrench when I do repairs around my estate or tune up a car. They sign paper to approve building contracts, sign endorsement deals…
He cracks the knuckles in each hand by simply balling them in a fist and squeezing.
They were the tools that constructed a life and a legacy very few in this industry could ever hope to achieve. Tools that took him far, not only in the sport of wrestling, but in other endeavors. Boxing…
*Montage of Tony hamming opponents in a boxing ring for the IBF and Elite*
MMA…
*Sitting at a desk signing his Global Combat Championship contract.*
These hands are money. But, they also nearly ruined me. They let opportunities slip through them, pounded on the walls in frustration. They destroyed a lot of careers, ended promising futures and friendships. Hell…
He pulls out an empty prescription bottle and turns the label. His name is plastered on them, and with the poison that used to be this snake’s choice: Percocet. The bottle rolls off his fingertips and hits the ground. He looks down in remorse for a moment, then lifts his head back up. He stares at his hands, palms open and facing him.
*A headline flashes from ESPN dot com: Tony Savage voluntarily admits himself to rehab.
Another from PWTorch: Tony Savage nearly taps out to addiction.*
These fuckers are so dangerous, they nearly killed me. But they also reached out for help, grabbed a lifeline. Took some of that paper and dragged my happy ass by the collar. These hands also slapped sense into me, told me…
You’re too GOOD for this shit. Clean it up!
He smiles, and bright perfect teeth turn into fangs.
But what they’ve always been, were weapons. They’ve spent years knocking the crowns off the heads of self-proclaimed monarchs. Cut down monsters and shut down freak shows and slapped the face paints off of clowns bringing their circus into a ring meant for fighters. Icons get the idea knocked into their heads they still have everything to prove. And to anyone that thinks they’re the king of the jungle…
“Behind him, an African bush viper slithers behind, golden in hue.. Tony smirks.”
There’s a reason the snake has been doing it better than anyone for millions of years.
These hands now find themselves back to putting in that work. The grimy, dirty, bloody kind. Chores that get these hands raised in victory….
*One last montage of 9 years of Tony’s arm raised in victory across the planet, often gripping belts along the way.”
And there are so many more years of that to come.
His fingers wiggle restlessly, needing some exercise. The serpent slivers away, and he eyes that bench malevolently.
These hands are toxic, and once they get a hold of somebody, it's pick your poison time. Beat down, knocked out, slammed around, or choked out. They do it all. And while others let their pyro, or their cosplay and their mouths do the talking...
He spins around, and his punching hand turns the bench from a one-piece to two. He pulls splinters of wood from his knuckles.
These always got the message across a lot louder and clearer.
My name is Tony Savage. Don't let the pretty face fool, you. Underneath, I can be just as nasty as these hands of. But you'll be reminded once again...
And that million-dollar visage of his does change to it's true form.
COME FIGHT NIGHT!!
Tony Savage is NOTORIOUS for being a borderline walking billboard. Almost thot-pocket level. The guys sells everything from Gucci to taking in a couple hundred and a free plate of sashimi for talking a selfie with the restaurant staff. Can one blame him for capitalizing on a naturally gorgeous face and a body he tortures himself to maintain. (He doesn’t run nearly 10 miles a day because it’s fun.)
But those hands tell the truth about what he is, and does for a living.
He didn’t need a fancy backdrop or exotic locale for this shoot. Hell, that black backdrop and the simple but sturdy bench was perfect, because it made him the focal point, something you couldn’t take your eyes off. When he raised his hands for public consumption, they were a far cry from the rest of the package.
They were large, with fingers slightly gnarled and knuckles that looked like skin was wrapped over chunks of asphalt. Bone turned to brick from years of calcifying from repeated impact…
From pounding on thing and people until they stop resisting!
When he punches each of his palms, it sounds like drywall being bludgeoned instead of flesh. There’s a reason he doesn’t hand model.
These hands were hoists, lifting up everything from Golden Gloves to trophies to 4 World Championships across the industry. They’re also money counters, touching 9 figures every time I log into my bank accounts or handle a rack.
They hold my wife and son, making them comforters. They turn a wrench when I do repairs around my estate or tune up a car. They sign paper to approve building contracts, sign endorsement deals…
He cracks the knuckles in each hand by simply balling them in a fist and squeezing.
They were the tools that constructed a life and a legacy very few in this industry could ever hope to achieve. Tools that took him far, not only in the sport of wrestling, but in other endeavors. Boxing…
*Montage of Tony hamming opponents in a boxing ring for the IBF and Elite*
MMA…
*Sitting at a desk signing his Global Combat Championship contract.*
These hands are money. But, they also nearly ruined me. They let opportunities slip through them, pounded on the walls in frustration. They destroyed a lot of careers, ended promising futures and friendships. Hell…
He pulls out an empty prescription bottle and turns the label. His name is plastered on them, and with the poison that used to be this snake’s choice: Percocet. The bottle rolls off his fingertips and hits the ground. He looks down in remorse for a moment, then lifts his head back up. He stares at his hands, palms open and facing him.
*A headline flashes from ESPN dot com: Tony Savage voluntarily admits himself to rehab.
Another from PWTorch: Tony Savage nearly taps out to addiction.*
These fuckers are so dangerous, they nearly killed me. But they also reached out for help, grabbed a lifeline. Took some of that paper and dragged my happy ass by the collar. These hands also slapped sense into me, told me…
You’re too GOOD for this shit. Clean it up!
He smiles, and bright perfect teeth turn into fangs.
But what they’ve always been, were weapons. They’ve spent years knocking the crowns off the heads of self-proclaimed monarchs. Cut down monsters and shut down freak shows and slapped the face paints off of clowns bringing their circus into a ring meant for fighters. Icons get the idea knocked into their heads they still have everything to prove. And to anyone that thinks they’re the king of the jungle…
“Behind him, an African bush viper slithers behind, golden in hue.. Tony smirks.”
There’s a reason the snake has been doing it better than anyone for millions of years.
These hands now find themselves back to putting in that work. The grimy, dirty, bloody kind. Chores that get these hands raised in victory….
*One last montage of 9 years of Tony’s arm raised in victory across the planet, often gripping belts along the way.”
And there are so many more years of that to come.
His fingers wiggle restlessly, needing some exercise. The serpent slivers away, and he eyes that bench malevolently.
These hands are toxic, and once they get a hold of somebody, it's pick your poison time. Beat down, knocked out, slammed around, or choked out. They do it all. And while others let their pyro, or their cosplay and their mouths do the talking...
He spins around, and his punching hand turns the bench from a one-piece to two. He pulls splinters of wood from his knuckles.
These always got the message across a lot louder and clearer.
My name is Tony Savage. Don't let the pretty face fool, you. Underneath, I can be just as nasty as these hands of. But you'll be reminded once again...
And that million-dollar visage of his does change to it's true form.
COME FIGHT NIGHT!!