Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 4:30:07 GMT
hey had spent one more night at the Hotel Pasada Mina before leaving out early in the morning to cross back over into America, and make the sixteen hour drive to Olympia, California. The manila folders that they had received last night at Beyond Evolution lay in the backseat, their contents still stuffed inside. Everyone had seen the contracts that Press had slammed down on the announce desk, but they hadn’t seen the other items. Like the five crisp hundred dollar bills that Lady Munin had provided each of them. The index card with a message written upon it in a simple elegant script that read:
Don’t interfere in the decision. Afterwards, the world is your oyster.
A pleasure,
-Munin-
The thousand bucks that The Lady had provided brought them to a grand total of $1250, which was a god send considering that they had to make it all the way to California. The Pontiac sounded great and looked cool, but its original three-fifty big block guzzled gas and required constant care.
The contract that they had skimmed through at the show was exactly what Munin had told them. It was a basic standard deal that guaranteed $2500 to each man to wrestle, and $500 for a standard appearance, like what they had done last night. Of course, no one had anticipated that, including Alfred Candy, the general manager of Evolution Wrestling. He hadn’t seemed too happy with Munin when they finally made it to the back, but they hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear any of the rebukes. Not that they would have cared either way. The BombTrax and the establishment had never really gotten along.
“Last night was fun.” Youth remarked, bringing Press out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, it wasn’t half bad.” Press replied. Youth turned to regard his partner with a look of false shock on his face, and Press just chuckled while merging into the far left lane to pass a convoy. “Alright, alright. So I had fun. I’m not always an uptight prick, you know?”
“Nah, only ninety percent of the time.” Youth grinned, and pumped his fist at the truckers who replied with long bursts from their horns. “So what do you think happens now?”
“Same thing that I told that journalist last night. More than likely we’ll hear a bunch of shit that don’t really matter, and at this show coming up in California we’ll get jumped by Deus, or DPI, or both.”
“Maybe we should go on the offensive, take them out first.”
Press was already shaking his head before Youth had even finished. “We fired the opening shot, kid. They have every right to be pissed, for all the good it will do them. We laid the bait, now they come to us, and so on and so on. No, if we’re going to do anything, we should focus on someone else. Keep the blanket of chaos fresh and unpredictable, like a smoke screen.”
Youth nodded, knowing that the big man was right. He just didn’t like the idea of having to wait for someone else to show up and kick his ass. It was the nature of the beast, though. If they took an ass kicking like that laying down, then it would make them look weak. Then again, there was a more devious response that could really bury them. He turned to the side, and calmly asked, “What if they ignore us?”
Press sat there for a minute, remembering a time in SIN when he had driven Tony Mellenia through an announce table, and the next week he hadn’t said a word about it. Acted as if it never happened. That had pissed him off something fierce, and the next few shows had been a clinic in backstage warfare and devastating consequences. Eventually Tony had to pay him attention because he was making the man’s life a living hell. When they faced each other there had been so much animosity between them, the roof damn near exploded.
“Isn’t going to happen. One of them is going to respond, and if I were a betting man, I’d say it will be the Doctor. He’s so full of shit that he won’t be able to contain himself. He probably rubs one out over shit like this, and now that he’s officially the champion, he can finally get rid of his sock for a new target.”
Youth snickered at the remark, and relaxed into his seat. They had another few hours of drive time before they made Olympia, and he was hoping that maybe he would get a little shut eye. Just then Press’ phone chimed with an incoming call from the console where it lay. The two men exchanged surprised expressions. They weren’t accustomed to getting phone calls unless it was from each other, but there were a few of their Vegas contacts that had the digits. When he spied the caller ID it was an unfamiliar number, and he hesitated a moment before finally sliding his thumb across the screen to answer.
“Hullo?” he asked dumbly into the phone.
"Hello Press, I hope you gentlemen found your payment acceptable."
Press sat there for a minute stunned. The voice on the other end of the phone was unmistakably Munins, but he was sure he hadn't given out his number. He cast a sidelong glance at his partner, who held his hands out at his sides and mouthed 'who is it?'
Press regarded him with a disgusted expression before hitting the speaker tab. "I don't remember leaving you a number to reach us...." He let the statement hang in the air, as much of an accusation towards his partner as a question for Munin.
"No, you didn't but luckily for you I'm very resourceful."
Youth couldn't hide his grin, but tried in the corner of his elbow. He raised his chin, and said, "Hi, Munin" in a cheerful voice, before stifling a laugh. Press' frown made the situation even more hilarious.
The big man leaned toward his window, positioning his phone hand to better hear and receive. "Resourceful, indeed. So what can we do for you?"
"I know something she can do for you." Youth whispered, giggling, but quickly buried his face again after the daggers shot at him by Press.
"I'm calling to inform you that your next match will be a tornado tag team match."
Press and Youth both perked up at that, and the next question was obvious. "Who are our opponents?"
"Raike, Kay, Bell, and Crack."
"Sounds like a Beastie Boys song. Are those real people?" Press asked, amused.
"Yeah, man. Raike and Kay are some of the guys who came out to aide the Doctor, and Spot Crack was in that Carnival of Horrors match. Cecily Bell's that cunt whose been blowing up our Twitter account."
"Oh yeah..." Press replied, recognition finally settling in. "I bet that's not all she's blowing around here."
Munin's chuckle was like a velvet caress even over the phone. "Right on all counts...though I don't care to confirm that last bit."
Youth snickered at that, while Press' expression fell into a quiet calm. He tried to sound non-chalant when he asked, "Will you be at the show?" But he knew that a tremble of excitement had escaped despite his effort.
"I make an appearance at every show...Unless it conflicts with my previous contract, but that has yet to happen."
He stifled the forthcoming sigh of relief as Youth regarded him with an ostentatious knowing smile. "Then we'll see you there." He said through gritted teeth.
"Yes you will, no matter what happens keep your focus. You take care of the pawns and I...I will handle Candy. No matter what he says your contracts are binding and approved by Huckabee." Despite how pleasant and civilized her tone was, there was a dangerous undercurrent that was unmistakable to someone that knew how to spot it.
"Don't worry. Our focus is present as long as the checks clear. Thank you for the stipend, by the way. We hadn't expected to see a pay out this early."
"Good work should always be rewarded, and it is something you can start to expect. No strings attached. Now I will be texting you the address of a gym that will be open to your use while you are in town. If you choose to use it that is. The owners are old friends, and just to warn you can be..." There was a slight pause, and the sense that Munin was smiling on the other end "Eccentric. Just stay out of their affairs and they will stay out of yours. I can assure that they are not doing anything illegal."
The two men shared a glance, but left out any further question. "Sounds good. We have a few things to tie up before the show, but I'm sure we'll make time for a proper work out. Thank you."
"No thanks necessary, good bye gentlemen."
With that the end of the line went silent, and Press sat the phone back down in the center console. Youth watched from his side of the car, the expression on the big man’s face unreadable. He knew that the wheels were turning, but when he wanted to, Press could be down right introspective, and when he got like that he was like a steel trap.
Youth had all but decided to just let the matter lie, when Press broke the silence. “I think we should change our entrance music to something a little more our style.”
The statement took Youth by surprise, and he stammered in response. “But…but…we’ve always used ‘Bomb Track’ by Rage. It’s our tag name for Christ’s sake!” He exclaimed, twisting in his seat. Music, despite being only a small part of a wrestlers showmanship, was still a pretty big deal. It was like a second identity to the performer, and every time someone heard that song, it would make them think of them. Curiosity, however, ground down the anxiousness that accompanied the suggestion, and Youth finally had to ask. “What did you have in mind?”
Press smirked at his partners obvious hesitance, and gave a slight shrug, followed by a response that sounded like he hadn’t given it much thought. “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems like we’ve outgrown Rage. We picked that song up in the 90’s when we first started, and had it ever since. I was thinking maybe….’Strangle Hold’ by Nugent.”
Youth could hear the cryptic opening chords in his head as soon as his partner muttered the words, and it thrummed in his skull by the time his brain reached the breakdown. He grinned mischievously and nodded in agreement. That was a good song choice. A great song choice. Cause that’s exactly what they intended to do to the competitors of Evolution Wrestling. Put them in a stranglehold, and watch as they all tried their best just to take another breath.
*****A FEW DAYS LATER*****
They had arrived at the Redwood Inn in Olympia, California at around 11:22 p.m. Sunday night, and paid the $375 for the week long stay. The Redwood wasn’t a double decker, every room being on the ground floor, but was a lot cleaner and more comfortable. It was in close proximity of the Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, and only six miles from the fairgrounds where the Carnival had been erected. The two men had spent some time there on opening night, and it was amazing to them at how quickly they had gotten the rides and attractions put up, considering that only three days ago they had been in Mexico.
True to her word, Munin had texted them with the location of the gym, and they had made plans to go there tomorrow for a workout.(See Munin’s CD for details) With their company stock on the rise, Youth finally conceded to allow Press to stop at a Cracker Barrel on one of the exits further up the road from the hotel. The big man had put away a sizeable feast, and was finally seeming to enjoy himself.
Life on the road was a hardship on most, but the two men had been doing it for so long it was like second nature. Even with their permanent residence in Las Vegas they had been booked at indies all over the country, and had taken off at a moment’s notice to heed the roads call. Their other job sometimes had them traveling too, so all in all, they had become accustomed to it. What they weren’t accustomed to anymore, however, was cutting promos, and as the little red light blinked above the digital camera they had brought with them, Press was having a tough time figuring out what to say.
“Shut the damn thing off. We’ll start over.” Press roared indignantly, slapping his thigh with his hand.
Youth chuckled, but only because he was at a loss himself. The indies only required a quick quip like what they had delivered to Amanda Kennedy after Beyond Evolution. They had mastered those. Promos were different. They were exactly what they sounded like, a promotion of one’s self. You could be the greatest in-ring performer with a thousand moves and flawless execution, but if you couldn’t cut a decent promo, then you couldn’t get off the ground. The fans enjoyed a multitude of styles, but at the end of the day, what they appreciated most of all was authenticity. If you were forcing a falsehood down their throats they wouldn’t sink their teeth into it.
Press motioned with his hand for the camera to be turned back on, and Youth obliged. The Big Man sat there for a moment looking menacingly into the lens, opened his mouth to say something, and then just let out a long sigh. He shook his head, and laid back on the hotel bed. It used to not be this hard, but practice makes perfect. They needed to wake up those creative muscles, make some prayers to the promo god’s, and hope like hell something would come to them before the show.
*****A FEW HOURS LATER*****
The scene opens up with Press and Youth standing out in the parking lot of the Greedy Pupil’s Moving Carnival. Both men sit on the roof of their 1966 Pontiac Tempest, basking in the evening glow as the sun sets behind them. Press is wearing black jeans, a heather grey t-shirt, and one black glove over his right hand. Youth on the other hand had on some blue windbreakers, a white wife-beater, and a pair of silver tinted wire shades.
“A lot of people have been asking us our intentions around here.” Press remarked, a dark hint to his voice. “It’s funny, cause that never really changes. You come into a place and deliver up some of the finest violence that they’ve ever seen, and they expect for there to be some secret motivation to it. I mean, after all, isn’t that what this business is about? The swerve? The angle? The buy-rate? Sometimes, administering an ass whipping is really simple. It requires no further explanation. It is…..what it is.”
“Doctor Powerful Incorporated and Deus had just put on one hell of a performance vying for the EW Championship at Beyond Evolution. I saw some true story telling out of that one right there, and man I was pumped. You had me on the edge of my seat from bell to bell. But that’s the problem. When that bell rang, signifying the end of the match, that’s when our time began. We crowned the newly crowned EW champion right smack dab in his crowning moment.”
“Damn, dude..” Youth exasperated, “That’s a lot of crowns.”
“Indeed it was, my friend. Because that’s what it’s all about. You work so hard, you put on the show of your life, and what should be your happiest moment gets stolen right out from under you by someone who doesn’t just want a championship, but needs it. And that’s all it was, Doctor. Deus. A need. People go through their entire lives amassing wants while disregarding the things that they actually need, but not us. Hell no! We needed to make an impact. We needed to establish what we could do. We needed to take the two guys in this company that everyone had either cheered or booed, and drop them on their fucking heads to make a point. That anyone, anywhere, is susceptible to our special brand of brutality.”
“We aren’t wrestlers. Hell, we’re not even entertainers. We didn’t do what we did to be cheered or booed, that’s all irrelevant. What we are, ladies and gentlemen, are mediators of violence. We’re mercenaries, and when it comes down to it, the real nitty-gritty, we’ll hurt you just cause we fucking can. I can’t stop any of you if you want to make it personal, if you want to pretend like there’s more to it. We’re just here to do what we do, and that’s put asses in seats to see what we’re going to do next.”
Press crossed his arms over his massive chest, leaning back on the hood, while Youth shadow boxed comically at the camera. A wide grin came across his face as he settled down, throwing his hands out at his side.
“Well here it is folks, the Greedy Pupil’s Moving Carnival with another exciting build to another wild night at Bad Behavior. In eight short weeks this little company has turned some heads, drawing all sorts of competitors into its fold. I mean, we got deranged clowns, masked boogeymen, possible murderers, evil geniuses, reality TV stars, super heroes, washed up has been's, all topped off with a few never was.”
“God Damn, is this a wrestling promotion or an HBO special: ‘Sodomy in the Prison System’?” He paused for a moment to reflect on the truth in the statement, and then shuddered under it’s weight.
“And now it’s official, The BombTrax are on the books for this Wednesday in a Tornado Tag Match against EW’s version of the cheer squad, Johnny Raike and Patrick Kay, and the team of hashtag DGAF! I’m going to assume that that means Don’t Give A Fuck, just like I’m going to assume that the hashtag alludes to the fact that you two spend more time on twitter than a prostitute does on her back."
"Speaking of prostitutes, Cecily Bell…what the fuck? You come out on twitter earlier this week complaining about being in a tag match, and then go and re-brand you and Spot Crack with a badass tag name. I mean, it’s almost like you’re a professional tag team expert, or at least that’s what Sam Xayachak told us at the cotton candy booth. Apparently sometimes Raike and Kay tag team you, Spot Crack and Redrum, a couple of Deus fanatics under masks, that guy that runs the Ferris wheel and the fish bowl rings. Hell, I even hear sometimes you tag team yourself with a cup of coffee and a bear claw.”
“But you know, that’s none of our business what you do in your own time. We’re here to talk about our tag match at Bad Behavior, but the only talking I’ve seen so far have been under 160 characters or less. Yes, twitter is a useful tool, but for Christ’s sake, at least make a showing. Get your head out from under Sam’s desk, and say a few words. I’m sure we’d all appreciate it if you’d swallow first cause that would be a damn mess, but either way,” Youth makes a perverted gesture with his hands while omitting the sound of someone gagging. “‘Gaaaah, Gaaaaah, Gaaaaah’ isn’t going to cut it this time.”
"As for Patrick Kay and Johnny Raike, I mean, I don’t even know what to say about you two. You’re carbon fucking copies of one another, which would make for great tag team wrestling if we were still in the eighties, but come on. The ultraviolent lush, Patrick Kay, and the pretty boy queen, Johnny Raike. I…” Youth pauses, his face a mixture of sympathy, confusion, and disgust. “I….Fuck. Do I even have to say anything?”
“Nope.” Press answers, a chuckle escaping his lips.
“There is absolutely nothing I could possibly come up with more ridiculous than you two just being yourselves.” The sentence trailed off into an exasperated laugh, and he just held his hands out to his side again. “I’m at a total fucking loss. You asshat’s have about as much chance of getting out of this alive as Spot does of digging his way out of Cecily Bell’s snatch. He’d need a canary and a chalk line, just like the fucking coal miners of Kentucky.”
“Please.” He was pleading now. “Please, just….just try to be better. This is our first match, we’re just trying to have a good time here, but we’d still like to put on a decent showing. But you guys have got a lot of work ahead of you if you expect for anyone to take you seriously. I mean, what’s all that gimmicky hardcore shit going to do for you when you come up against two guys who will just straight up stomp your teeth down your throat? I’m not trying to be superior here, I’m not tooting my own horn….I got Cecily for that!” He grins, and strikes his invisible drums. Badum-dum! “But if you think you’re going to get by us with the bare minimum bullshit you guys have grown accustomed to, then you’ve got a rude awakening coming for you at Bad Behavior.”
Press hopped down from the car to stand beside his partner, and leaned forward into the camera. The two men spoke in unison.
Fight Us If You Will…
Pin Us If You Can…
Beat Us You Will Never!
Youth gave his trademark grin and shrug as Press bore holes into the camera with his intense eyes. The scene fades to black.
Read more: officialpurepro.boards.net/thread/25/introductions-3-featuring-lady-munin#ixzz45CpxGXco
Don’t interfere in the decision. Afterwards, the world is your oyster.
A pleasure,
-Munin-
The thousand bucks that The Lady had provided brought them to a grand total of $1250, which was a god send considering that they had to make it all the way to California. The Pontiac sounded great and looked cool, but its original three-fifty big block guzzled gas and required constant care.
The contract that they had skimmed through at the show was exactly what Munin had told them. It was a basic standard deal that guaranteed $2500 to each man to wrestle, and $500 for a standard appearance, like what they had done last night. Of course, no one had anticipated that, including Alfred Candy, the general manager of Evolution Wrestling. He hadn’t seemed too happy with Munin when they finally made it to the back, but they hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear any of the rebukes. Not that they would have cared either way. The BombTrax and the establishment had never really gotten along.
“Last night was fun.” Youth remarked, bringing Press out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, it wasn’t half bad.” Press replied. Youth turned to regard his partner with a look of false shock on his face, and Press just chuckled while merging into the far left lane to pass a convoy. “Alright, alright. So I had fun. I’m not always an uptight prick, you know?”
“Nah, only ninety percent of the time.” Youth grinned, and pumped his fist at the truckers who replied with long bursts from their horns. “So what do you think happens now?”
“Same thing that I told that journalist last night. More than likely we’ll hear a bunch of shit that don’t really matter, and at this show coming up in California we’ll get jumped by Deus, or DPI, or both.”
“Maybe we should go on the offensive, take them out first.”
Press was already shaking his head before Youth had even finished. “We fired the opening shot, kid. They have every right to be pissed, for all the good it will do them. We laid the bait, now they come to us, and so on and so on. No, if we’re going to do anything, we should focus on someone else. Keep the blanket of chaos fresh and unpredictable, like a smoke screen.”
Youth nodded, knowing that the big man was right. He just didn’t like the idea of having to wait for someone else to show up and kick his ass. It was the nature of the beast, though. If they took an ass kicking like that laying down, then it would make them look weak. Then again, there was a more devious response that could really bury them. He turned to the side, and calmly asked, “What if they ignore us?”
Press sat there for a minute, remembering a time in SIN when he had driven Tony Mellenia through an announce table, and the next week he hadn’t said a word about it. Acted as if it never happened. That had pissed him off something fierce, and the next few shows had been a clinic in backstage warfare and devastating consequences. Eventually Tony had to pay him attention because he was making the man’s life a living hell. When they faced each other there had been so much animosity between them, the roof damn near exploded.
“Isn’t going to happen. One of them is going to respond, and if I were a betting man, I’d say it will be the Doctor. He’s so full of shit that he won’t be able to contain himself. He probably rubs one out over shit like this, and now that he’s officially the champion, he can finally get rid of his sock for a new target.”
Youth snickered at the remark, and relaxed into his seat. They had another few hours of drive time before they made Olympia, and he was hoping that maybe he would get a little shut eye. Just then Press’ phone chimed with an incoming call from the console where it lay. The two men exchanged surprised expressions. They weren’t accustomed to getting phone calls unless it was from each other, but there were a few of their Vegas contacts that had the digits. When he spied the caller ID it was an unfamiliar number, and he hesitated a moment before finally sliding his thumb across the screen to answer.
“Hullo?” he asked dumbly into the phone.
"Hello Press, I hope you gentlemen found your payment acceptable."
Press sat there for a minute stunned. The voice on the other end of the phone was unmistakably Munins, but he was sure he hadn't given out his number. He cast a sidelong glance at his partner, who held his hands out at his sides and mouthed 'who is it?'
Press regarded him with a disgusted expression before hitting the speaker tab. "I don't remember leaving you a number to reach us...." He let the statement hang in the air, as much of an accusation towards his partner as a question for Munin.
"No, you didn't but luckily for you I'm very resourceful."
Youth couldn't hide his grin, but tried in the corner of his elbow. He raised his chin, and said, "Hi, Munin" in a cheerful voice, before stifling a laugh. Press' frown made the situation even more hilarious.
The big man leaned toward his window, positioning his phone hand to better hear and receive. "Resourceful, indeed. So what can we do for you?"
"I know something she can do for you." Youth whispered, giggling, but quickly buried his face again after the daggers shot at him by Press.
"I'm calling to inform you that your next match will be a tornado tag team match."
Press and Youth both perked up at that, and the next question was obvious. "Who are our opponents?"
"Raike, Kay, Bell, and Crack."
"Sounds like a Beastie Boys song. Are those real people?" Press asked, amused.
"Yeah, man. Raike and Kay are some of the guys who came out to aide the Doctor, and Spot Crack was in that Carnival of Horrors match. Cecily Bell's that cunt whose been blowing up our Twitter account."
"Oh yeah..." Press replied, recognition finally settling in. "I bet that's not all she's blowing around here."
Munin's chuckle was like a velvet caress even over the phone. "Right on all counts...though I don't care to confirm that last bit."
Youth snickered at that, while Press' expression fell into a quiet calm. He tried to sound non-chalant when he asked, "Will you be at the show?" But he knew that a tremble of excitement had escaped despite his effort.
"I make an appearance at every show...Unless it conflicts with my previous contract, but that has yet to happen."
He stifled the forthcoming sigh of relief as Youth regarded him with an ostentatious knowing smile. "Then we'll see you there." He said through gritted teeth.
"Yes you will, no matter what happens keep your focus. You take care of the pawns and I...I will handle Candy. No matter what he says your contracts are binding and approved by Huckabee." Despite how pleasant and civilized her tone was, there was a dangerous undercurrent that was unmistakable to someone that knew how to spot it.
"Don't worry. Our focus is present as long as the checks clear. Thank you for the stipend, by the way. We hadn't expected to see a pay out this early."
"Good work should always be rewarded, and it is something you can start to expect. No strings attached. Now I will be texting you the address of a gym that will be open to your use while you are in town. If you choose to use it that is. The owners are old friends, and just to warn you can be..." There was a slight pause, and the sense that Munin was smiling on the other end "Eccentric. Just stay out of their affairs and they will stay out of yours. I can assure that they are not doing anything illegal."
The two men shared a glance, but left out any further question. "Sounds good. We have a few things to tie up before the show, but I'm sure we'll make time for a proper work out. Thank you."
"No thanks necessary, good bye gentlemen."
With that the end of the line went silent, and Press sat the phone back down in the center console. Youth watched from his side of the car, the expression on the big man’s face unreadable. He knew that the wheels were turning, but when he wanted to, Press could be down right introspective, and when he got like that he was like a steel trap.
Youth had all but decided to just let the matter lie, when Press broke the silence. “I think we should change our entrance music to something a little more our style.”
The statement took Youth by surprise, and he stammered in response. “But…but…we’ve always used ‘Bomb Track’ by Rage. It’s our tag name for Christ’s sake!” He exclaimed, twisting in his seat. Music, despite being only a small part of a wrestlers showmanship, was still a pretty big deal. It was like a second identity to the performer, and every time someone heard that song, it would make them think of them. Curiosity, however, ground down the anxiousness that accompanied the suggestion, and Youth finally had to ask. “What did you have in mind?”
Press smirked at his partners obvious hesitance, and gave a slight shrug, followed by a response that sounded like he hadn’t given it much thought. “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems like we’ve outgrown Rage. We picked that song up in the 90’s when we first started, and had it ever since. I was thinking maybe….’Strangle Hold’ by Nugent.”
Youth could hear the cryptic opening chords in his head as soon as his partner muttered the words, and it thrummed in his skull by the time his brain reached the breakdown. He grinned mischievously and nodded in agreement. That was a good song choice. A great song choice. Cause that’s exactly what they intended to do to the competitors of Evolution Wrestling. Put them in a stranglehold, and watch as they all tried their best just to take another breath.
*****A FEW DAYS LATER*****
They had arrived at the Redwood Inn in Olympia, California at around 11:22 p.m. Sunday night, and paid the $375 for the week long stay. The Redwood wasn’t a double decker, every room being on the ground floor, but was a lot cleaner and more comfortable. It was in close proximity of the Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, and only six miles from the fairgrounds where the Carnival had been erected. The two men had spent some time there on opening night, and it was amazing to them at how quickly they had gotten the rides and attractions put up, considering that only three days ago they had been in Mexico.
True to her word, Munin had texted them with the location of the gym, and they had made plans to go there tomorrow for a workout.(See Munin’s CD for details) With their company stock on the rise, Youth finally conceded to allow Press to stop at a Cracker Barrel on one of the exits further up the road from the hotel. The big man had put away a sizeable feast, and was finally seeming to enjoy himself.
Life on the road was a hardship on most, but the two men had been doing it for so long it was like second nature. Even with their permanent residence in Las Vegas they had been booked at indies all over the country, and had taken off at a moment’s notice to heed the roads call. Their other job sometimes had them traveling too, so all in all, they had become accustomed to it. What they weren’t accustomed to anymore, however, was cutting promos, and as the little red light blinked above the digital camera they had brought with them, Press was having a tough time figuring out what to say.
“Shut the damn thing off. We’ll start over.” Press roared indignantly, slapping his thigh with his hand.
Youth chuckled, but only because he was at a loss himself. The indies only required a quick quip like what they had delivered to Amanda Kennedy after Beyond Evolution. They had mastered those. Promos were different. They were exactly what they sounded like, a promotion of one’s self. You could be the greatest in-ring performer with a thousand moves and flawless execution, but if you couldn’t cut a decent promo, then you couldn’t get off the ground. The fans enjoyed a multitude of styles, but at the end of the day, what they appreciated most of all was authenticity. If you were forcing a falsehood down their throats they wouldn’t sink their teeth into it.
Press motioned with his hand for the camera to be turned back on, and Youth obliged. The Big Man sat there for a moment looking menacingly into the lens, opened his mouth to say something, and then just let out a long sigh. He shook his head, and laid back on the hotel bed. It used to not be this hard, but practice makes perfect. They needed to wake up those creative muscles, make some prayers to the promo god’s, and hope like hell something would come to them before the show.
*****A FEW HOURS LATER*****
The scene opens up with Press and Youth standing out in the parking lot of the Greedy Pupil’s Moving Carnival. Both men sit on the roof of their 1966 Pontiac Tempest, basking in the evening glow as the sun sets behind them. Press is wearing black jeans, a heather grey t-shirt, and one black glove over his right hand. Youth on the other hand had on some blue windbreakers, a white wife-beater, and a pair of silver tinted wire shades.
“A lot of people have been asking us our intentions around here.” Press remarked, a dark hint to his voice. “It’s funny, cause that never really changes. You come into a place and deliver up some of the finest violence that they’ve ever seen, and they expect for there to be some secret motivation to it. I mean, after all, isn’t that what this business is about? The swerve? The angle? The buy-rate? Sometimes, administering an ass whipping is really simple. It requires no further explanation. It is…..what it is.”
“Doctor Powerful Incorporated and Deus had just put on one hell of a performance vying for the EW Championship at Beyond Evolution. I saw some true story telling out of that one right there, and man I was pumped. You had me on the edge of my seat from bell to bell. But that’s the problem. When that bell rang, signifying the end of the match, that’s when our time began. We crowned the newly crowned EW champion right smack dab in his crowning moment.”
“Damn, dude..” Youth exasperated, “That’s a lot of crowns.”
“Indeed it was, my friend. Because that’s what it’s all about. You work so hard, you put on the show of your life, and what should be your happiest moment gets stolen right out from under you by someone who doesn’t just want a championship, but needs it. And that’s all it was, Doctor. Deus. A need. People go through their entire lives amassing wants while disregarding the things that they actually need, but not us. Hell no! We needed to make an impact. We needed to establish what we could do. We needed to take the two guys in this company that everyone had either cheered or booed, and drop them on their fucking heads to make a point. That anyone, anywhere, is susceptible to our special brand of brutality.”
“We aren’t wrestlers. Hell, we’re not even entertainers. We didn’t do what we did to be cheered or booed, that’s all irrelevant. What we are, ladies and gentlemen, are mediators of violence. We’re mercenaries, and when it comes down to it, the real nitty-gritty, we’ll hurt you just cause we fucking can. I can’t stop any of you if you want to make it personal, if you want to pretend like there’s more to it. We’re just here to do what we do, and that’s put asses in seats to see what we’re going to do next.”
Press crossed his arms over his massive chest, leaning back on the hood, while Youth shadow boxed comically at the camera. A wide grin came across his face as he settled down, throwing his hands out at his side.
“Well here it is folks, the Greedy Pupil’s Moving Carnival with another exciting build to another wild night at Bad Behavior. In eight short weeks this little company has turned some heads, drawing all sorts of competitors into its fold. I mean, we got deranged clowns, masked boogeymen, possible murderers, evil geniuses, reality TV stars, super heroes, washed up has been's, all topped off with a few never was.”
“God Damn, is this a wrestling promotion or an HBO special: ‘Sodomy in the Prison System’?” He paused for a moment to reflect on the truth in the statement, and then shuddered under it’s weight.
“And now it’s official, The BombTrax are on the books for this Wednesday in a Tornado Tag Match against EW’s version of the cheer squad, Johnny Raike and Patrick Kay, and the team of hashtag DGAF! I’m going to assume that that means Don’t Give A Fuck, just like I’m going to assume that the hashtag alludes to the fact that you two spend more time on twitter than a prostitute does on her back."
"Speaking of prostitutes, Cecily Bell…what the fuck? You come out on twitter earlier this week complaining about being in a tag match, and then go and re-brand you and Spot Crack with a badass tag name. I mean, it’s almost like you’re a professional tag team expert, or at least that’s what Sam Xayachak told us at the cotton candy booth. Apparently sometimes Raike and Kay tag team you, Spot Crack and Redrum, a couple of Deus fanatics under masks, that guy that runs the Ferris wheel and the fish bowl rings. Hell, I even hear sometimes you tag team yourself with a cup of coffee and a bear claw.”
“But you know, that’s none of our business what you do in your own time. We’re here to talk about our tag match at Bad Behavior, but the only talking I’ve seen so far have been under 160 characters or less. Yes, twitter is a useful tool, but for Christ’s sake, at least make a showing. Get your head out from under Sam’s desk, and say a few words. I’m sure we’d all appreciate it if you’d swallow first cause that would be a damn mess, but either way,” Youth makes a perverted gesture with his hands while omitting the sound of someone gagging. “‘Gaaaah, Gaaaaah, Gaaaaah’ isn’t going to cut it this time.”
"As for Patrick Kay and Johnny Raike, I mean, I don’t even know what to say about you two. You’re carbon fucking copies of one another, which would make for great tag team wrestling if we were still in the eighties, but come on. The ultraviolent lush, Patrick Kay, and the pretty boy queen, Johnny Raike. I…” Youth pauses, his face a mixture of sympathy, confusion, and disgust. “I….Fuck. Do I even have to say anything?”
“Nope.” Press answers, a chuckle escaping his lips.
“There is absolutely nothing I could possibly come up with more ridiculous than you two just being yourselves.” The sentence trailed off into an exasperated laugh, and he just held his hands out to his side again. “I’m at a total fucking loss. You asshat’s have about as much chance of getting out of this alive as Spot does of digging his way out of Cecily Bell’s snatch. He’d need a canary and a chalk line, just like the fucking coal miners of Kentucky.”
“Please.” He was pleading now. “Please, just….just try to be better. This is our first match, we’re just trying to have a good time here, but we’d still like to put on a decent showing. But you guys have got a lot of work ahead of you if you expect for anyone to take you seriously. I mean, what’s all that gimmicky hardcore shit going to do for you when you come up against two guys who will just straight up stomp your teeth down your throat? I’m not trying to be superior here, I’m not tooting my own horn….I got Cecily for that!” He grins, and strikes his invisible drums. Badum-dum! “But if you think you’re going to get by us with the bare minimum bullshit you guys have grown accustomed to, then you’ve got a rude awakening coming for you at Bad Behavior.”
Press hopped down from the car to stand beside his partner, and leaned forward into the camera. The two men spoke in unison.
Fight Us If You Will…
Pin Us If You Can…
Beat Us You Will Never!
Youth gave his trademark grin and shrug as Press bore holes into the camera with his intense eyes. The scene fades to black.
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