Post by Cross Recoba on Jul 22, 2016 13:13:04 GMT
“What a relief…”
The thought swirled around Recoba’s head as he sat backstage at The Prather Coliseum. He’d been walking around the confines of his Las Vegas suite unaided and devoid of pain for two weeks before tonight but as he passed through the curtain to make his arrival in the main event he couldn’t help but feel nervous about how well his body would hold up.
When he had been given the all-clear by the Wunderkind doctor he’d found he didn’t feel overjoyed, he didn’t feel burdened; instead he felt numb. His mind hadn’t processed the information when he’d heard it and instead of beaming from ear to ear he’d solemnly thanked the physician for his work and went about his business. Finally, it seemed, the emotion had hit him in a delayed jolt to the body.
He looked at the briefcase, an item that he’d begun to resent for being a millstone around his neck, a constant reminder that this would be all he’d be good for inside of wrestling. Nothing but a money man, an instigator, a nod to the beginning of Pure Amusement Wrestling. Each week he’d silently plead for anyone to knock Press from his perch so he could hand over the fifty-grand, and would he be glad to willingly part with it, so that he could find some form of closure in all that had happened. Now, the briefcase could be stowed away until he needed it again; this time, however, he could use for it his own direct gain instead of gaining an indirect sense of false happiness.
On the floor at his feet lay the shattered remains of his cane, no longer an item he would need to rely on – he’d keep the antique cane he picked up earlier that day as a keepsake from the day, display it on his wall and eagerly await the chance to recount the significance it held for him. The pieces of the Norwegian Blue cane, he had a plan for those already and patiently knew the day would come to enact that idea.
So much had changed in the company since he’d last entered the ring to be a part of a match, so many faces had come and gone and yet he remained a constant, as did Press. He pondered whether that held any significance, and perhaps it did, equally the company was less than a year old, if they still remained there in five years maybe there would be some but for now he knew that his chance to settle the score remained reachable.
He stood to pace the room and felt a twinge in his back reminding himself that it was natural and not a sign he’d come back too soon, the strength to lift Press into Garibaldi’s Guillotine would have caused him the same pain before he’d taken a flight off the ramp. He checked his phone and saw his Personal Trainer had sent him a message consisting of a simple thumbs up emoticon. He owed a lot to the man and thought about whether or not he could bring himself to give him the contents of the briefcase but really - it was a man doing his job.
It hadn’t been an easy fortnight, Cross had spent hours going through his arsenal and, for now, had kept almost all of it – the only doubt being whether or not he could afford to keep the Million Lira dropkick, a move that saw him hurl himself over the top rope to deliver a dropkick to the face of his opponent on the outside. For now he’d not retire it, regarding it as a move that had its uses and he’d managed to keep his mind sane enough to know when the time would be right to utilize it.
His mind was the root cause of his comeback, the ability to identify two likeminded individuals within PAW that not only shared his hatred to the PAW Champion but also had the ability to do something about it. He wasn’t sure if he could fully trust Nomad and Harris yet but so far, so good. They’d passed the first test of unity by sticking to the plan and in doing so made a pronounced statement to the rest of the roster. If anyone came away from that event not talking about the actions of the trio then they would surely have a bladder with worst timing than Gavril Princip’s hunger back in 1914. What the triumvirate’s next move would be was undecided but Recoba resisted the temptation to check Twitter to find out what the masses suspected it would be.
Recoba heard a knock at the door and turned round to see a backstage worker bring him what he’d requested. Recoba took the piece of paper from him and flicked his chin towards the door for privacy. The worker reached halfway out the door before he heard Recoba’s anger.
CROSS RECOBA: Where is my name?!? How can the people in charge here be so idiotic! No Noamd, no Harris, no Recoba?
The worker looked to open his mouth but what little noise fell from the gaping hole was silenced by a look of pure disgust from the Illinois native.
CROSS RECOBA: I didn’t sue them when I was nearly crippled, I agreed to do their little talk show segment each week, I made everyone who appeared look better when they left the ring than they did entering it! EVEN …Press…
Recoba lit up a cigarette and kicked the briefcase in anger
CROSS RECOBA: Do they capitalise on my return? No! It’s like they want to brush it under the carpet, pretend it didn’t happen because God knows their reliance on Press is paramount! I’ve made the hottest return of the year and now they want me to sit out the next play on the bench?
Recoba took a heavy inhale of the Lucky Strike
CROSS RECOBA: I’m the hottest star they have here right now, I can bet you every Tom, Dumbfuck and Harry is talking about me and they expect me to just take an off-week? You!
The worker give Recoba a puzzled look
CROSS RECOBA: Yes, you, go get Munin know that if that’s how she wants to play it she’s going to face another week where the only names people are talking about are Nomad, Harris, and Recoba!
The worker hesitates
CROSS RECOBA: I’ve told you to fuck off, why are you still here?
The worker scoots out of shot. A message reached Recoba’s phone, he looked down to see it was from Kelsey Spencer, he’d suggested a post-show Pepsi, right now even a Bourbon wouldn’t be strong enough to quell his anger. He stubbed out the cigarette and headed out of shot.
The thought swirled around Recoba’s head as he sat backstage at The Prather Coliseum. He’d been walking around the confines of his Las Vegas suite unaided and devoid of pain for two weeks before tonight but as he passed through the curtain to make his arrival in the main event he couldn’t help but feel nervous about how well his body would hold up.
When he had been given the all-clear by the Wunderkind doctor he’d found he didn’t feel overjoyed, he didn’t feel burdened; instead he felt numb. His mind hadn’t processed the information when he’d heard it and instead of beaming from ear to ear he’d solemnly thanked the physician for his work and went about his business. Finally, it seemed, the emotion had hit him in a delayed jolt to the body.
He looked at the briefcase, an item that he’d begun to resent for being a millstone around his neck, a constant reminder that this would be all he’d be good for inside of wrestling. Nothing but a money man, an instigator, a nod to the beginning of Pure Amusement Wrestling. Each week he’d silently plead for anyone to knock Press from his perch so he could hand over the fifty-grand, and would he be glad to willingly part with it, so that he could find some form of closure in all that had happened. Now, the briefcase could be stowed away until he needed it again; this time, however, he could use for it his own direct gain instead of gaining an indirect sense of false happiness.
On the floor at his feet lay the shattered remains of his cane, no longer an item he would need to rely on – he’d keep the antique cane he picked up earlier that day as a keepsake from the day, display it on his wall and eagerly await the chance to recount the significance it held for him. The pieces of the Norwegian Blue cane, he had a plan for those already and patiently knew the day would come to enact that idea.
So much had changed in the company since he’d last entered the ring to be a part of a match, so many faces had come and gone and yet he remained a constant, as did Press. He pondered whether that held any significance, and perhaps it did, equally the company was less than a year old, if they still remained there in five years maybe there would be some but for now he knew that his chance to settle the score remained reachable.
He stood to pace the room and felt a twinge in his back reminding himself that it was natural and not a sign he’d come back too soon, the strength to lift Press into Garibaldi’s Guillotine would have caused him the same pain before he’d taken a flight off the ramp. He checked his phone and saw his Personal Trainer had sent him a message consisting of a simple thumbs up emoticon. He owed a lot to the man and thought about whether or not he could bring himself to give him the contents of the briefcase but really - it was a man doing his job.
It hadn’t been an easy fortnight, Cross had spent hours going through his arsenal and, for now, had kept almost all of it – the only doubt being whether or not he could afford to keep the Million Lira dropkick, a move that saw him hurl himself over the top rope to deliver a dropkick to the face of his opponent on the outside. For now he’d not retire it, regarding it as a move that had its uses and he’d managed to keep his mind sane enough to know when the time would be right to utilize it.
His mind was the root cause of his comeback, the ability to identify two likeminded individuals within PAW that not only shared his hatred to the PAW Champion but also had the ability to do something about it. He wasn’t sure if he could fully trust Nomad and Harris yet but so far, so good. They’d passed the first test of unity by sticking to the plan and in doing so made a pronounced statement to the rest of the roster. If anyone came away from that event not talking about the actions of the trio then they would surely have a bladder with worst timing than Gavril Princip’s hunger back in 1914. What the triumvirate’s next move would be was undecided but Recoba resisted the temptation to check Twitter to find out what the masses suspected it would be.
Recoba heard a knock at the door and turned round to see a backstage worker bring him what he’d requested. Recoba took the piece of paper from him and flicked his chin towards the door for privacy. The worker reached halfway out the door before he heard Recoba’s anger.
CROSS RECOBA: Where is my name?!? How can the people in charge here be so idiotic! No Noamd, no Harris, no Recoba?
The worker looked to open his mouth but what little noise fell from the gaping hole was silenced by a look of pure disgust from the Illinois native.
CROSS RECOBA: I didn’t sue them when I was nearly crippled, I agreed to do their little talk show segment each week, I made everyone who appeared look better when they left the ring than they did entering it! EVEN …Press…
Recoba lit up a cigarette and kicked the briefcase in anger
CROSS RECOBA: Do they capitalise on my return? No! It’s like they want to brush it under the carpet, pretend it didn’t happen because God knows their reliance on Press is paramount! I’ve made the hottest return of the year and now they want me to sit out the next play on the bench?
Recoba took a heavy inhale of the Lucky Strike
CROSS RECOBA: I’m the hottest star they have here right now, I can bet you every Tom, Dumbfuck and Harry is talking about me and they expect me to just take an off-week? You!
The worker give Recoba a puzzled look
CROSS RECOBA: Yes, you, go get Munin know that if that’s how she wants to play it she’s going to face another week where the only names people are talking about are Nomad, Harris, and Recoba!
The worker hesitates
CROSS RECOBA: I’ve told you to fuck off, why are you still here?
The worker scoots out of shot. A message reached Recoba’s phone, he looked down to see it was from Kelsey Spencer, he’d suggested a post-show Pepsi, right now even a Bourbon wouldn’t be strong enough to quell his anger. He stubbed out the cigarette and headed out of shot.
