|
|
Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 3:25:35 GMT
Live from the Shreveport Municipal Memorial Auditorium
705 Elvis Presley Blvd. Shreveport, Louisiana
Thursday, February 4th, 2016 at 10 pm CST
First Role Play Deadline: Thursday January 28th, 2016 @11:59 PM CST
Final Role Play Deadline: Wednesday February 3rd, 2016 @ 11:59 PM CST
Segment Deadline: February 4th @ 8:00 AM CST
|
|
|
|
Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 3:26:02 GMT
San Francisco was anathema to Jake. He’d spent his life trying not to be seen and to get by on his book smarts but this? It was killing him. He’d taken two steps outside of the Westin St. Francis hotel and already he’d decided this wasn’t going to be worth it. The hustle and bustle, the urban sprawl that enveloped him as he looked out across at Macy’s across the square, the three beggars that had seemingly pounced on him as soon as his feet left the stairs leading to the sidewalk.
Last week an email came in that struck as different to the rest, it wasn’t asking about the business but about him. This alone was a rarity, after a few emails back and forth the talk of business began - but this seemed different. The emails looked like they were looking to help him out, that perhaps this could be a pipeline of funding that didn’t rely on meetings, of cash-flow forecasts and five-year profit projections. Then he received an email confirming a reservation for himself on Union Square, at the Westin St. Francis to be precise. That was how he’d come to find himself in what he spent so much of his time avoiding - he was in the rat-race.
Upon his arrival he had received a phone-call from the concierge to inform him that he was to attend lunch at Morton’s and now he found himself walking the block and a half to a meeting with someone he’d never actually spoken to, never seen, and who signed off his emails ‘AB’. Alongside meetings with Venture Capitalists the idea of a business lunch was a close-second in his lists of pet hates and that was why right now he found himself wondering if he should have told Dan not to come into the office that morning.
The familiar vibration that signaled a new email into his inbox pulsed inside the pocket of his suit trousers, the trousers were new, he’d decided he needed them no matter how frugal he had become accustomed to living over the last year. He ignored the notification knowing that he could lose half an hour just being caught up in his inbox. Business had picked up over the last few days and, not that he’d complain, he might get some breathing room from the bank. He could maybe even start looking at changing the UI of the app, something that had been on the road-map since the last iteration but one that wasn’t going to be cheap to remedy. Who knows, he might even be able to get in an additional hire. Jake mentally scolded himself for running away with the dream. He’d grown wise to the pick-ups in traffic and usage, now he would find a quick way to shoo the dreaming away from his thoughts using the metrics to prove his negativity.
Once more his daydreaming had gotten the better of him as he knocked into a woman window-shopping at the Victoria’s Secret boutique inside the Westin. He smiled the best smile he could muster but he knew that her response wasn’t going to be something he’d want to hear. He ducked his head down and muttered a sorry as he picked up the pace going up the hill.
If he could get anything out of this meeting it’d be a win, he caught a look of his reflection as he turned onto Post. He never could tie a tie and today was no exception. He made a gawky attempt to straighten it but he just made it worse - he’d forgo a tie. He placed it into his satchel and pushed open the door to Morton’s.
“I’m here to meet someone, Golding?” he nervously explained - he was more of a Dave & Buster’s guy with a few friends, or takeout ideally, than this.
The maître d’ gestured for Jake to go up the stairs and as he did so he saw the restaurant was empty, except for one guy in what looked like a suit that could pay the mortgage on his folks home from now until Labor Day. He approached the table gingerly, still unsure exactly how out of his depth he was.
Once again we leave another WICKED taping and who is everyone talking about? That’s right – Cross Recoba. Not only did I outsmart Lady Munin and the PAW management team once, I managed to do it twice. First, by catching wind of their plans days before the show and getting legal papers drawn up to absolve myself from my actions against that schmuck who seriously thought that I’d give him money for nothing. Then, when it came to the match where it definitely wasn’t a punishment, just coincidence I got an opponent like Press and a referee who happened to be his tag-partner, when it came to that they, and everyone watching learnt the cold, hard fact – money talks.
I can’t say that it all went my way, you all saw me lying in the ring out cold. Saw the beat-down that was meted out to me by two men who might now have money but still, undeniably, lack any class when it comes to handling themselves. Now you see how my body is yet to heal, but it will, in time for me to spoil the debut of my opponent, James Edwards.
It’s almost like the match-making team at PAW have worked out that when it comes to making money that I’m almost a sure-fire guarantee. That every single PAW fan would love to see a repeat of my assault, to watch me as my body bounces off the canvas, unable to move and clearly in agony. Factor in someone like James Edwards who would make a real statement of his abilities if he beat me and it all makes sense.
I know you’re a fighter, Edwards, you like to go out there and work out the fastest way to victory and you’re willing to take your lumps in the process. I know that you’re not here to make friends but here to fight. I get that, I really do – but is that going to be enough? We’re not fighting for pride; we’re fighting for the chance to progress through to the next round of the tournament to crown the inaugural PURE Champion in PAW.
You’re there to make a statement, start your time here with a win; that much is logical. I imagine you must have had a grin reaching from ear to ear when you saw my name opposite yours on the card. Winning your debut match would tell people you belonged here…beating me means you mean business.
I wouldn’t dwell too much on that thought though, you’ve yet to step into a PAW ring and while I imagine you saw the last WICKED taping and saw me work the crowd like an organ grinder does a monkey you didn’t see me inside the ring, you’re going in cold. The crowd? They’ll get behind you because I seem to be their favorite object of hate, but will that mean cheering for you or booing for me? It’d be a shame if you were seen as nothing more than an insignificant prop and a vessel for the fans’ own shortcomings; you’re worth more than that. Or maybe you’re not, maybe you’re as bland in the ring as the profiles written about you suggest.
Recoba let out an audible moan of pain as he reached for the decanter of bourbon that sat on top of his mahogany desk. He’d taken beatings before but this one was up there with the best of them. He’d spent the weekend laid up in bed, Costello’s ruling from last week had made it one of the few options he had to pass the time.
He poured a generous measure of bourbon into the tumbler in front of him as he took stock of his year so far, all twenty-seven days of it, four weeks had passed since it was last 2015 but yet his role within The Sands organization had gone from being untouchable to undefinable. What happens when the part of your life that you use to define yourself ceases to exist?
The boredom of being in limbo between the professional side and the off the books side of the company needed to change. He’d quickly grown tired of the lack of day-to-day activity it seemed to bring. He’d gotten a brief rundown from Elliott and Cassie to bring him up to speed with the Public Relations headlines from the team. Before he’d been able to delve deeper into the updates, be able to offer his own take on what play to run to maximize or negate the publicity. His reduced responsibilities had rendered him a figurehead, a familiar face to report to the board. The lack of ways to fill his days was killing him inside.
He had always kept himself busy, a work ethic instilled into him by his father and then, in his absence, by his mother. Costello was aware of this, had seen Recoba become restless when there was little to do, had known his family enough to know that working for a wage was a matter of pride and so Cross drew the conclusion to be that this was almost certainly a punishment for pursuing a career on the side inside the wrestling ring.
Recoba tipped his head back to drink from the tumbler and stopped himself before he felt the increasingly familiar pain in his neck courtesy of the T.N.T. from The Bombtrax. The headache from Press’ elevation out of the powerbomb had subsided; the minor whiplash caused by Flaming Youth’s spinning wheel kick, and the fall to the mat, wasn’t going to go away before the weekend according to the doctor.
He reconciled with himself that soon retribution would come. Looking at the brackets for the PURE Championship Tournament he comforted himself with the thought that at least one of the glorified street thugs would have to step into the ring with him if his predictions stood firm.
Cross took a sip of his drink, mindful not to move his neck any more than he needed to; the warmth of the liquor providing his own self-administered anesthetic to the pain. He reminded himself that he’d have no more than two of them before dinner, he’d seen people slip down this slope before and he wasn’t prepared to be bored and a drunk.
He’d been spending more time on Twitter, trying to keep up with news of The Sands from outside sources, they’d provide an insight into how well Costello’s new structure was doing without his daily input. He noticed he had yet another notification:
She was easy on the eye, she didn’t seem to have the air of pretension most females in the wrestling industry possessed. It was refreshing not to read about another former Beauty Queen or multimillionaire heiress that had entered the ring, they were one-note personalities. She seemed more grounded; something that if Recoba was honest with himself would be a welcome attribute to find in someone.
He thought about finding out where she’d be staying in New York and sending a gift and invitation to Vegas to greet her when she checked in but thought better of it. He wasn't sure if he'd be compensating for the lack of activity by trying to engineer something artificially instead of letting it take whatever organic form it might - patience was the right move. Patience was already proving to be the lesson that he was being forced to learn in 2016, be it in the ring or inside The Sands. No doubt Al would be thrilled if he mastered it, the inevitable work he would be asked to perform would be reliant it. His face now far more recognizable to the public than when he last had to dirty his hands in the name of progress for the company and that meant he'd have to take more care when it came to the approach.
He slowly rose to his feet from the chair and finished the last of the bourbon inside the glass. It was time to focus on what he could control and that was researching his opponent in the tournament, James Edwards.
How do you deal with pressure, James? Do you thrive on it? Not competition, but pure, unfiltered pressure. How do you cope when the momentum isn’t with you? Isolation seems to be something that follows you and it’s a feeling you haven't adapted to all too well. So, in the interest of competition, the thing you value most, let me clue you in right from the start.
You’re not going to win many friends here, not when there is gold on the line. You might compete under the banner, fey as it may be, of valuing competition above all but that’s not the real world.
In the real world, or to be more precise – this world, you’re a new face, you’re entering at a time when every single roster member will be looking for every advantage they can get on their side. They’ll cheat, they’ll game, they’ll even try to become the apple of the fans’ eyes just to get an extra lift in their quest to be champion – how does that sit with you? Does it wrangle?
You just appear slightly misplaced here in PAW. I can’t argue with your pedigree in the ring, you’re effective, but not flashy. Your moves are logical, but that’s it – you have no sizzle in your game. What was it you said to that intern? You’re not here to entertain, you’re here to fight? That you look down on those of us who might try to not appear like we’re going through the motions and add some entertainment to the show? I wonder what would happen if you look up as you pick yourself off the mat and catch me more concerned with inciting the inevitable wasters that occupy our audience here in PAW. Will it unleash your infamous temper?
Let’s talk about that temper – because it’s going to be a factor when we face off in Louisiana. You’re a liability to yourself, what happens when you just lose it? When everything turns red and you can’t keep your rage bottled up any longer? Want to take a guess how well that might fare against me? I’ll answer for you – it ends with a Sicilian Typewriter and my hand raised in the air.
I’m looking forward to our match because I’m going to take every opportunity to goad you, to prod at that anger that lives inside you, and I’m going to mock every essence of competitive fair play I can. Why? Because you’re mentally weak; that means your focus is going to waver, your concentration is going to falter, and your ability to spot an opening is damaged.
You might not have had a chance to see me inside the ring but I’ll give you some advice for free – if I haven’t telegraphed my game-plan enough… I’m the ultimate opportunist looking for you to be put off your game, and you’re the first opponent of four that stands between me and becoming the first PURE Champion in PAW history!
The phones were set out in alphabetical order on the table - Asia, Europe, United States. He’d long moved past trying to conduct business with only one phone; there was just no way of being able to keep everything organized, and organization was vital to success.
Out of habit he checked that his personal phone was sitting inside the left inside pocket of his blazer - the only phone he could afford to neglect. Today was, on paper, just another routine day but that was what stood him out from the rest in his field. They made decisions based on empirical facts, and facts -they were always important but not the whole view. What he’d learnt from his time was that numbers would only tell you so much and that often the value was to be made on those ventures where the proposition told you that the numbers were lying, that the projections were cowardly, the forecasts pitched weak as to not disappoint the shareholders. Today’s meeting was a great example of the figures painting a weaker reality than really existed.
His relative youth within his industry had allowed him certain advantages that others couldn’t dream of possessing. He’d come into the game at a time of great change, had honed his craft during a period of technological infancy and, over the last five years, as the world of business shifted, he possessed what had once being described as ‘the perfect blend of risk, technical savvy, and market reading’. This meeting was one he knew had been avoided by others to whom he was compared; the payoff from this would be his late Christmas present to himself.
He surveyed the restaurant and smiled to himself. It was the small advantages that one could make that made money. He could have gone for a more sought-after place in the Bay Area, but that would have been foolish. Why publicize his moves? He had been to this place for years, knew the owners, and knew that they weren’t averse to giving him free-run of the place when he stopped by. Taking this meeting in a more highly-populated restaurant would have betrayed his motives and that wasn’t an option his clients allowed him to take.
The Old Fashioned passed his lips as he saw the door at the front of the restaurant open. He observed the timid approach of Jake Golding. He’d hoped that the second-tier restaurant would have eradicated the nerves, if anything the empty restaurant seemed to make the matter worse as Jake approached him like a man approaching the gallows.
He stood and extended a hand to Golding who met it rather meekly.
“Alexander Beasant, pleasure to meet you”
He gestured for Jake to sit down. Jake was taken aback by the Received Pronunciation, what is known as ‘BBC English’. He took a seat as the waiter approached the table and poured him a glass of water.
“Could I get you a drink?”
Jake seemed flustered by the rapid response of the waiter.
“A...beer is fine”
“Which one,sir?”
“He’ll have an Orval Trappist”
Beasant wanted to get the formalities out the way and realized that Jake would need some hand-holding. The waiter walked off to get the drink as Jake realized he had yet to take off his satchel.
“Thank you, Jake, for coming today. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I’m a big fan of your work.”
Jake seemed to be surprised that the Englishman had come across his ‘work’.
“I spend a lot of time on this side of the pond, so to speak. I attended a dinner party last year that without your app would not have nearly have been as much of a success.”
Golding was flattered by the words; it’d been a long time since he’d heard them spoken aloud.
“Jake, you’ve got a great product, with a lot of potential. Now, and feel free to turn around and walk out the door, but the thing that is holding it back is that you’re not a people person. You don't come across in the press as someone altogether comfortable in his own body.”
Jake seemed visibly wounded.
“It’s fine, you spotted an opportunity, you developed a solution, your issue is that you need someone to deal with the larger issues. The business matters, if you will….that’s where I can help….”
The waiter came to the table and poured the Belgian beer part-way into the glass and set down the bottle. Jake took a healthy glug but remained seated.
“My role is to help people like yourself and put them in touch with resources, not just financially, that they wouldn’t otherwise have access to that help them realize the potential of their ideas. Now, if you’ll afford me the time it takes for us to enjoy lunch, and I recommend you try the filet mignon, I hope we can come to an understanding. If at any point you don’t like what I’m saying or you think this isn’t something you’d be comfortable pursuing you can walk away from today safe in the knowledge that what we’ve discussed won’t leave these four walls. All I ask in return is the same favor. Do we have a deal?”
Beasant took a sip of the Old Fashioned and saw that Jake was going to speak for the first time.
“Yes…. deal.”
The shy Ohioan reached across the table with an outstretched hand.
*****
|
|
|
|
Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 3:26:35 GMT
What are you loyal to, Cross Recoba? Family? Money? Your own sense of self-importance?
Something tells me that even you did answer my question it would be a fuckin’ lie. I don’t think anybody I asked would give me an honest answer.
I know that is a pretty damn cynical way to the see the world, but that’s just the way it is. Nobody wants to admit to be real; nobody wants to reveal their true colors anymore.
What I think is pretty goddamn funny is that the harder people try the easier it is to read them like a menu from the Waffle House.
________________________________________________________
Loyalty is encoded in the Edwards’ family DNA. My great-grandfather got a bullet put in his head for not snitching on his buddies. My daddy stood up to a no good woman in the name of friendship. Now I was back in Lowell, Massachusetts to support my friend and tag partner despite everything that happened to me there.
All that sounds swell until the shine wears off the story and you realize they the Edwards’ legendary loyalty is coated in cow shit. My great grandfather was in the pockets,or a crooked sheriff and ended up dead because he lied on the stand for a bastard deputy who raped some poor guy’s wife. I don't blame the husband for wanting justice when the courts failed him. Daddy verbally beat down my mom when she kicked his gang of drunk losers out of the house. As much as I hate her for abandoning me, I understand she left to get away from him.
So I bet you are wondering where is the shit on my shine?
The answer to that question: I’m a fucking coward who didn't have the balls to say goodbye to one of the only friends I made in Fight One.
It’s why I was in the crowd instead of in Vic’s corner.
_________________________________________
If you wanna’ know where a man’s loyalties lie, then you gotta’ watch him like a hawk.
I’ve been watchin’ you, Cross. I know that sounds fuckin’ creepy but oh well, who the fuck cares?
It was really damn easy for me to see where your loyalty is. You bow down to your own image and expect other people to do the same. Shit man, you must really think you walk on water if you expect to go out in front of a crowd of people and humiliate a kid without a thought of repercussion. Hell, you must think your balls are made of steel to get yourself disqualified and still proclaim you’re the real deal.
I’ve fought your type before; I’ve won and lost to em’ plenty of times over the course of my career. All of ya’ are the same. You talk shit, and if you lose then it is a fuckin’ travesty and by god you won’t let us forget it. If you win it’s a victory worthy of comparison to Gettysburg.
I really don’t give a damn how you want to act because if you carry that attitude into our fight then, I’ll just do what I’ve always done.
You can ask a long list of vain motherfuckers what it was like to try and fool around with James Edwards in the ring. Most of them will tell you they had blender a gas station burrito for a week. Wanna’ know why? Because there is only one thing I’m loyal to, the Fight.
____________________________________________________________
This isn’t a story about two lost men that find meaning in their friendship with one another. Victor Wylde and I each wanted something the other could offer.
In my case, I was tired of having someone jump me from behind every week. I had two choices, quit Fight One or find someone to watch my back. Honestly, at that point in my career, I was better off quitting. My mouth and willingness to do jobs for the crooked boss of the promotion, Aidan Morag, hadn’t won me many admirers in the locker room.
Vic’s reasoning was different. He’s a former amateur boxing star and made a slight dent fighting overseas in Thailand. When he decided to wrestle it would seem logical promoters would be beating down his door to sign him. They didn’t and that’s where the other side of Vic’s story begins.
“The Wylde Thing” spent a number of years in Japan as a Yakuza enforcer under the direction of Tommy Fujita. Of course, no one could prove the rumors were true, but that didn’t stop Vic from seeing himself as tainted goods. He craved legitimacy the only way a wrestler knows how to get it and that is by winning gold.
I sought him out and offered to help bring him tag team glory in exchange for watching my back. He agreed. Neither of us thought we would end up as friends.
__________________________________________________
The Fight is what I live,by it’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to a god. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. It is not hard to understand.
Life outside the Fight is complicated as fuck. People hurt and lie to you. The folks you give a fuck about die and leave you alone. I don’t get why that has to happen but in the Fight the world is simple. There is some fuck across the ring from you and the only way to survive is to defeat him.
Whatever hurts me on the outside I take into the ring with me. I use it as fuckin’ gasoline and just when the time is right I light a match and set my opponent on fire.
That’s the kind of man you are gonna’ be facing soon, Cross. An arsonist with a lot of hate in his heart. You respect me and you respect the Fight you have nothing to worry about. You disrespect me and my creed, and I’ll burn that hollow house you call an existence to the ground.
__________________________________________________________________________
It turns out that the “Strike Team”, our terrible but catchy name, was a hit in and out of the ring. We rarely lost and when we did the other team came out of the fight black and blue. When we weren't on the clock Tommy and Victor were the family I wished I’d had in my teenage years.
Did they have shady pasts? Yes. Where we as different as night and day? Yes. Did I care? Fuck no, I didn’t.
Tommy always lent me an ear when I needed one and shared my love of late night trips to 24 hour diners.
Vic was like an older brother...he kicked my ass when we spared and dished out tough love advice.
Things were great until I lost my head.
The differences in our personalities aligned themselves well with how Fight One viewed each of us.
Brash, confident and handsome, the backstage brass viewed Vic as a future star. If he kept his mouth shut that is.
Me, well the company really didn’t have any plans for me. I’m quiet and keep my trap shut---for the most part---so it’s easy to see why the whispers in the back indicated I’d be a company man but nothing else.
I knew then and still think I’m better than that. I wanted to prove it. So, like an idiot, I called out some of the biggest names in the company on Twitter. The folks on my hit list were not amused and complained to management. Or, I think they did. Either way I pissed someone off.
I had two options, apologize or quit; so I left without a word to Tommy or Vic.
I’ve ignored so many texts, voice mails and direct messages on social media from the, two each one stored on my phone feels like another step towards fulfilling the self destructive prophecies common in my family.
As a sit here in a terrible seat I bought off a scalper on the corner, I can’t help but think what a coward I am. A man that let me into his life is in a fight against the company’s resident monster, Damion Darkside, and I am here to support him but I’m just too much of a chicken shit to let him know. I’m too ashamed to admit that my pride got the best of me and I bailed on him for purely selfish reasons. I can’t face him, what will I tell him? That I’m just being an Edwards and am following the family tradition: one bad choice after another, fueled by my own narcissism.
What a good, loyal fucking friend I am.
|
|
