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Post by The BombTrax on Jun 7, 2016 8:09:40 GMT
*****A few Days Ago*****
Press sat on the edge of a log he had propped up by the fire he had started. He was somewhere on the South East of the property, just past the fence that separated the Camp Salmen Nature Park from the amusement park grounds. Some of the pine that he had tossed in the fire for its citrus aroma popped, and he leaned back against the tree that he had set his log in front of, resting his hand on the large container that sat beside him.
Off to the side of him, a few feet away, lay a mound of dirt with a shovel stuck inside. The hole that he had dug had been dug once before, and by the decay of the bones he found when he hit his depth mark indicated that the first time had been around 1832. The rough stone that stood as a marker had the name ‘Abigail’ crudely carved onto its smoothest side, and the bones indicated that this was, indeed, a woman.
He had made the decision for Youth that he would be the one to put an end to all this. It seemed only fitting, considering he was the one that had originally put them in this predicament in the first place. Back in 2006, he had been the one to beg Samedi and Minerva to bring Youth back after he had already passed on. He had thought at the time that it was the right call, and who’s to say it wasn’t, considering the past ten years. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt over the past six months, despite his good intentions at the time.
Unfortunately, that’s life in a nutshell for The BombTrax. The road to hell can be paved in good intentions, and in their line of work, sometimes the dead don’t have the common courtesy to stay in the ground.
His mind drifted, as it often seemed to do these days, to the life that they had built here in New Orleans and PAW. There were a lot of people who would have never pegged The BombTrax to be successful again in the wrestling business. After all, they hadn’t seen the inside of a ring with any clout in around eight years, and even before that, their national exposure and success had been limited. Experience for the sake of experience was on their side, but at the end of the day, their bank account didn’t reflect that. Their mission, as it were, had seen to that.
He frowned at the thought of The Mission. When Youth had told him about Abigail, after the initial shock and angry response, he settled on the fact that this was a sign. A sign that they had become far too relaxed as just two normal wrestlers trying to make a living, and that the universe was telling them to get off their ass, and back into the game. The original point of taking the gig with PAW was to continue to provide funds for the mission, and because of its location.
What better place to fight the forces of the supernatural than one of the most supernatural cities in the continental U.S.? So they packed up, and moved to New Orleans. They signed with PAW. Reconnected with old friends, and even managed to make some new ones. The money began to flow, they got set up in an extremely nice apartment, and pulled off some major upsets and high profile matches.
There would always be naysayers in the sport of Professional Wrestling, but even he had been a little surprised, though he never showed it, with how he had waltzed through the PAW Heavyweight Championship Tournament. One by one his opponents fell at his feet, Luke Knux, Jack Swanson, and Cross Recoba, with the whole thing culminating in a show down with The Madman, Stevie Harris, at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show.
They had tried to kill one another in that match, and Press hadn’t been challenged like that since the old days, back when Johnny Storm was gunning for their heads. But despite the Madman’s best efforts, Press had weathered the storm brought on by the enigmatic cultist, eventually putting him down for a third and final time, with some help from his partner, at WICKED#9. Despite his best efforts, however, it was Johnny Raike who put the final nail in the coffin of Stevie Harris, by alerting the FBI to some of Stevie’s less than savory dealings outside of the ring.
Press smirked at the thought of the Thigh High Thriller. It was sort of hard for you to dislike the guy, even though he was nipping at his heels just as much as anyone since winning the championship. I guess you could call that respect, for lack of a better term. He would like to think with some of their recent backstage conversations, and even their partnership at WICKED#11, that the feeling was mutual. At the end of the day that was for he and Raike to decide, and he couldn’t help but feel that it might be best decided in a squared circle.
Then there was the upstart Calvin Harris, the current Titans of the Midway Champion. He was a smarmy back biting prick who would probably sell his own mother if it meant he got a shot at the title. He had been making waves ever since the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, and had managed to creep his way into the title picture. Press couldn’t deny the little bastards tenacity, however, as he had brought doubt to everyone’s mind when he defeated CJ O’Donnell and Johnny Raike. He and The Most Liberated Man In Wrestling had a date with destiny at Heat Stroke, and that would decide what happened next with the main title picture.
The question was, would Press still be the champion. CJ O’Donnell wasn’t faring so well, but he was no slouch. By his count, despite the false news report on the PAW website, he had managed to escape Irish Knowledge, and not cause the Irishman wasn’t trying. His partner, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He was pretty sure that Youth had taken more Irish Knowledge running knee’s than CJ’s opponents as of late, in PAW or 4CW. It was a fact that Youth had tried to pay back in kind with a chair shot upside the back of CJ’s skull, but the Irishman never responded. To be fair, he had a lot of things on his mind, like losing two in a row before a high profile match, or the seven-foot champion that stood across from him in that high profile match.
A cool breeze skipped across Press skin, bringing him back to reality from his thoughts. He looked up, and across the fire, sitting on the mound of dirt, was a beautiful creole woman, with large doe eyes, a heaving bosom, and nice full lips. She was just as Youth had described her, and now in her presence, Press realized more so. It was easy to see why his friend had become so easily enamored, and even more, why it was so hard for him to let go.
She stared at him through the flames for a long moment, the embers sparkling in her eyes. If Press couldn’t see the soft hue that seemed to emanate from all around her, he would have guessed her to be as real as any other woman. But that small difference was enough, not to mention the hairs that were slowly starting to rise on the back of his neck like little pin pricks.
“So you da one dat Jason sent to end my days on dis earth?” She said cooly, in a soft velvet like voice.
Press nudge the coals around in the fire, and then looked up from his broad brow. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Her laughter was like the tinkling of bells and intoxicating, and it was all Press could do from rushing the woman and taking her right there on the mound of dirt. That of coarse meant she had learned some control over her powers, and it left him wondering if she hadn’t used them on Youth to seduce him.
Her laughter came to an abrupt halt, and she stared hard at the big man as he rested his elbows on his knees, using the stick to write sigils in the air with the burning end.
“I didn’t vex him, if that’s wat you think.” She said crossly, placing her arms around herself as if she were cold. “I love him, I truly do. It is unfortunate that fate has played such a wicked game with both our hearts.”
The last was said with some real conviction, and Press nodded, pushing against the tree to help himself up to his feet. He looked over at the forlorn beauty, and thought of how Youth looked before he had left, curled up on the couch in much the same manner. He supposed that she was right. Of all the amusement parks, in all the world, your spirit just had to haunt this one.
He chuckled a bit to himself, and she looked up sharply, being brought out of her melancholy. When she saw that he wasn’t even looking at her, she eased back, realizing he hadn’t made jest at her expense. Finally, Press reached down, taking the canister, and edged around the fire to face the open hole. He checked his watch, and sure enough, it was 11:50 PM. The witching hour was upon them.
“It’s time. Are you ready?” He asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She answered, coming to stand beside him. “Will it hurt?”
He hadn’t been prepared for this question, so he stammered a bit, before finally settling down to contemplate in silence. After a few moments he looked over, and shrugged.
“To be honest, we’ve only ever done this to spirits who weren’t so keen on being sent to the other place, so it seemed like it hurt them. A lot. But because you actually want to be free, and are doing this of your own will, I don’t think you’ll be harmed.”
She nodded, the uncertainty of the answer giving her pause, but eventually she decided that it didn’t matter. Her mind was made up. When she looked up again, Press was staring at her, and she cocked her head to the side in question.
“I know this is a moot point, but because this isn’t being done forcibly, the rules are a little different. I have to ask.”
The tinkling bells of laughter came again, and she remembered the time that she had been asked this once before, ten years ago, hovering over a dead boy in a bar in New Orleans. She nodded her head for him to continue.
Press shook his head, and got on with it. “Are you sure this is what you want? Once we start, we cannot go back.” He stated evenly, doing his duty as the acting priest.
Abigail nodded her consent, and then spoke it. “It is as I will it, Redeemer.”
Press cleared his throat, and then reached down to the canister and its precious contents. It was a mixture of salt and wood chips that had been soaked in ‘Oleum Infirmorum’, olive oil blessed bya Bishop, gasoline, and hydrofluoric acid. The acid would immediately begin working upon the bones, the holy oil would cleanse them, the wood chips and gasoline would act as an accelerant for when he added the fire, and the salt would work as the banishing agent. That is, of course, as long as he got the incantation right.
He dispersed the contents of the container all along the bottom of the grave, covering Abigail’s remains from head to toe. The Acid immediately began fizzling upon the arid bones, and Abigail shuddered. Press only briefly paused to cast her a glance, before reaching down into the fire, and pulling the burning end of a log into the grave.
The flame erupted up into the sky in a ten-foot geyser that quickly dropped down to a low flame that crackled beneath their feet. He closed his eyes, and bowed his head in prayer, and in a low voice began reciting the ‘last rights’ in Latin.
“Our help is in the Name of the Lord.
Who made Heaven and Earth.
O Lord, hear my prayer.
And let my cry come to Thee.
The Lord be with you.
And with thy spirit
Let us pray.
Hear us, holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God: and be pleased to send Thy holy angel from Heaven to guard, cherish, protect, visit and defend all that dwell in this house. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
As the words rolled on through, Press opened his eyes to glance over at Abigail, who stood in the same spot she had been in, but now looked different. The solid form that she had first presented to him no longer held the same shape, and he could see straight through her now, like a spirit. She was glowing, much as she had so many years ago when she helped bring Youth’s soul back to his body, but she appeared to be in no pain. She dutifully kept silent as with each word, she continued to erode from this world into the next.
“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, let there be extinguished in you all power of the devil by the imposition of our hands, and by the invocation of the glorious and holy Mother of God, the Virgin Mary, and of her illustrious Spouse, St. Joseph, and of all the holy Angels, Archangels, Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Martyrs, Confessors, Virgins, and of all the saints together. Amen.”
She was no more than an outline now, probably not visible to the naked eye. He could see her though, due to his keen eyes brought on by ‘The Touch’. She turned to him just before fading completely away, and he could barely make out what appeared to be a sweet smile.
“Thank you, Redeemer, and tell Jason that I will always love him.”
Then she was gone.
Press stood there for a minute staring at where the apparition had been, unable to pull his eyes away from it. Her gratitude had struck a chord deep inside of him, almost like an alarm going off on a clock. And what was an alarm, if not a reminder. A reminder of their mission, and how ever since they had come to New Orleans they had become lax. He knew that was about to change, just as he also knew heaven help whatever evil got in their way.
He filled in the grave with the dirt pile he had made, even though there was really no need. The acid and the fire had done their job, and there was nothing left of Abigail on this earth save for the memory she left behind with Youth. He thought of his partner, and wrestled with whether or not to deliver her final message. The one about love. He knew that Youth was already broken up about what had to be done, but would feel even worse if there were anymore last minute declarations.
As he poured the bucket of water he had brought with him over the fire, the smoke pillowed up into his face, and he closed his eyes, letting the last vestiges of heat wash over him. He would tell him. He owed him that much. He deserved the truth. Press opened his eyes, grabbed up the empty canister, and made his way back towards the park.
*****SATURDAY June 4th, 2016 – The Crossroads*****
Youth had taken one day to mourn the loss of Abigail. That was all he was going to allow himself. When he had first found out about it, they had sat out in the woods all night talking. Sharing their love for one another. She had requested that he let her go, and wanted him not to tarry. To move on with his life. So that’s what he was going to do, despite the difficulty of the task.
That was why he was here, sitting in the darkest corner of the balcony section of The Crossroads, nursing a beer. He had sent Lady Munin a text earlier in the week to set up the meeting, and then another not an hour ago letting her know where he was sitting. He had gotten here early so as to get some liquid courage in him for the confrontation, as he was sure that she was still pretty hot about the situation that occurred a few days ago between Alex and Press.
He shook his head at the thought of the big man, knowing that his partner had a lot of pressure on him being the champion. It didn’t help that his personal life was mostly nonexistent, which was no fault of Munin’s, but the feelings that Press bore for her certainly didn’t help. There was only one way that he could think of to help alleviate that tension, and maybe explain Press’ behavior towards her as of late, and that was to get it out in the open.
It made him feel a little dirty sitting here, knowing what he was about to do. Sure, Press would say that it was none of his business. That he had no right. That it was personal. But that was just it. They had been best friends for fifteen years, Tag Team Partners, inseparable. They had shared experiences that most people wouldn’t, hell, couldn’t comprehend, and the very nature of how close they were made it impossible for them to keep secrets from one another for long.
He mused at that word. ‘Secrets’. That was just it. It wasn’t a secret to anyone but the person he was about to explain it to. Samedi already knew. Anyone with half a brain who paid the least amount of attention could figure it out. He was pretty sure that even Alex Cross was becoming wise to it, and Press and Alex were rarely ever in the same room together. That of course, was by design. If they were ever forced to work together, Youth couldn’t guarantee that his partner wouldn’t put Alex through a table on principle alone.
Just then a familiar form appeared at the top of the stairs. Munin paused at the stairs, her all too observant eyes sliding over Youth. He had the uncanny feeling that those dark eyes saw far more than he liked.
"I see you've started without me..."
There was no censure in her voice, just a gentle acknowledgment that she realized something was off. It only took her a moment to move out of the shadowed stairway. Candle light painting her exposed pale skin gold against the black of her shift like dress.
Youth looked up at her with the most serious tone that she had ever seen on the young man. Usually he bubbled with an exuberance that lived up to his namesake, but the man before her was all too adult for her liking. He used his foot to push the seat across from him out in an open invitation, and then took a sip of his drink before settling back in his seat.
She silently slipped into her chair, her anger had long since cooled.
"Nice to see you, Lady." Youth said, the corners of his mouth forcing a slight smile.
Tucking a strand of black hair behind one ear, she offered her own small smile. "For some reason I don't quite believe that Youth."
“Yeah, I guess that’s fair. Let’s get you a drink before we begin. I have a good feeling that you’re going to need it.”
He waved down a waitress just as she was about to move downstairs, and she made her way to the edge of the table with a questioning glance.
“Something further, Sir? Perhaps for the Lady?”
"Honey Mead, thank you Rina."
Youth nodded for one more, and Rina promptly made her way for the bar. The two sat quietly, deep in their own contemplations, when Rina returned, almost startling them. She sat a tankard in front of Munin, and another Bud Light in front of Youth, before disappearing.
Now that everyone had a drink, Youth sank back even further in his chair, taking a long sip from his beer. He looked tired, like someone who had been up for too long without a rest in between. He tussled his long hair for a minute, and then brought his hand down to rest on the table.
“This would be easier if I didn’t feel so shitty about it, but I guess I had better start at the beginning.” He paused long enough to take another sip, and then looked at Munin, but past her, as if he were trying to conjure some picture off in the distance.
“Fifteen years ago I met a guy named Preston Jones. He was one of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen, and was a pretty good wrestler to boot. Even with his physical prowess, he just couldn’t seem to get his act together. As for me, I’ve always been charismatic, but look at me. I’m a bean pole. Sure, I’ve put on a little muscle, but back then it was terrible. So the promoters took my charisma, and slapped it on Press size and ability, and next thing you know The BombTrax were born. Even as good as that combo was, it was still missing a little something at that time. This was the late 90’s after all, and everything hinged on sex appeal. Not a lot sexy about two greasy long haired guys, so they threw a hot chick into the mix. Her name was Tammy.”
He stopped for a minute at the mention of her name, furrowed his brow, almost as if in pain, and then took a long swig from his beer before continuing.
“Tammy was a bombshell, and one of the coolest chicks I’ve ever known. She made a great partner for us, and really helped the whole tag team kick things off. More than that, though, she helped take care of us. Her and Press, well, they became an item. It was good. Really good. They loved one another very much.”
Youth took a deep breath that sounded more like a sigh.
“But then one day we all ran into a little trouble. Same old story, met the wrong kind of people, Yadda, Yadda. Press and I managed to make it out, but Tammy, well, Tammy decided to stay behind. On her own. Press was heartbroken, tried to reason with her, but in the end it was her decision, and it was final.”
Youth paused to eye Munin for a second.
“Now I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, cause I know how this all sounds. Tammy wasn’t looking to hurt anyone. Hell, she was actually doing the right thing by all counts, but it was us who couldn’t stick it out. It was just all too crazy. Eh, None of that part matters, so we’re going to skip it. The point is, Tammy and Press were together for five years, and then one day they weren’t. That’s been nearly ten years ago to this day, and Press hasn’t been with anyone since.”
Munin sipped her mead with a clear expression. Behind the calm mask though something was twisting in her gut. It didn't take a genius to figure out something was wrong.
"When I say no one, I mean no one. I can't be sure, but I don't even think he masturbates. He's like a priest or something, you know, with gratuitous cursing and beer.”
Youth actually paused to smile at that remark, but then shook his head with a chuckle, and continued. The look Munin was giving clearly said how little she wanted to hear about Press's masturbation habits, but Youth didn’t seem to notice.
"It's not like he just buried it, and moved on with his life. That's what most people do. If you haven't noticed, he's a pretty moody fuck, but he's done the best he can. He married himself to wrestling, to his hobbies, to the Pontiac, but I don't think he ever really let it go, he just learned to not think about it as much. Every once in a while it creeps up on him, and on occasion, I've even used it to fire him up.”
He hung his head low at that, shrugging halfheartedly.
"its how I got him to join up with Evolution Wrestling in the first place. I told him I was sick of watching him act as everything was alright, even though it wasn't. Almost as if he was just waiting around to die."
Youth got quiet for a moment, and just stared at his beer, before finally looking up to meet Munin's eyes.
"You see, I had something happen to me recently. A loss, if you will, that I'd rather not go into. Needless to say, though, it brought a few things to my conscious. I don't want to see Press go through life with regrets, or worrying what might have been. I want him to live as full a life as possible, and sometimes that means taking chances. I think that's what really holds him back from trying to put himself out there. He's afraid if he takes another chance on that big a scale, that he's going to lose, and he's not sure he could take that again."
Munin stayed unnervingly quite throughout Youth's litany. She made no rush to fill the aching silence, and seemed content to sip her mead...waiting for the storm. Youth remained silent for a long stretch, letting the last words he had spoken hang in the air. He stared into his bottle for what seemed like forever, before tilting his head up and looking the woman straight in the eye.
“The reason he’s been such a prick lately, is because his situation has changed. He does feel something for someone else, and after ten years of thinking he’d never feel that way again, he doesn’t know exactly how to process it. So I’m going to do it for him. He’s in love with you.”
In that moment everything clicked into place, and then immediately imploded. The glass of mead slipped from Munin's suddenly numb hand, and for the first time Youth saw fear in Munin's eyes.
"He what?"
He sat back, his face a mask of concern and burden. He thought about what to say now that the cat was out of the bag, but he and Press had made a living of just going forward with one foot in front of the other, and this time was no different, so he sucked in a deep breath of air, looked the Lady in the eye once more, and blurted it out for the second time.
"He's in love with you."
Munin suddenly looked much smaller in her chair. Her exotic dark eyes larger with distress, and her very movement seemed edgy.
"Why would you say something like that?"
"Because it's the truth," Youth replied probably a little to matter-of-factly for Munin at that moment, if she even heard it all. He sighed, and shook his head. "Listen, no one's asking you to do anything. Hell, he'd kill me if he had any idea I was here. I'm waiting any minute now for him to burst through that door and powerbomb me off the balcony through the floor, but that's unlikely to happen, as I scheduled our meeting for the exact same time he was going into the studio to do his promo work."
"I don't know how, or why it happened. That isn't really my concern. It’s the fact that it did happen, after nearly ten years of nothing. That's what I'm trying to tell you, Munin. That's why this is important. There was nothing. I've tried to rationalize it myself, hell, he's tried to rationalize it. I don't think, no...Actually, I know he has no idea why he feels the way he does, he just does."
As he spoke Munin leaned forward to bury her face in her hands. At this point he couldn't even be sure that she heard him. The silence that stretched between them was filled with an unsettling current. It was that feeling you got when standing next to a live wire.
"What is the point in telling me this?"
The undercurrent of energy in the room was becoming down right uncomfortable.
"You know, maybe I didn't do the right thing here. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, and just let all of this go on as it had been, with you in the dark, and him tearing himself apart. All I know for certain is that we only have one shot on this earth, one chance to get it right, but we can fuck it up, cause we're weak. Cause we're scared. Hell, cause it's just what we humans do. Ten years is a long time to hold onto something that let go of you, and I don't want him going through another ten holding onto something that might never be."
Dark eyes peeked out at him between pale fingers.
"Might never happen? I am in a serious relationship Youth. How does telling me this help annnyone?"
The tone of forlornness was quickly seeping away only to be replaced with rage. Enough quiet rage to raise the hair on the back of Youth's neck. Before anymore could be said heavy hurried steps could be hear coming up the wooden steps. Samedi was soon making his way towards the table. A odd look of strain on his face.
"Munin?"
The tall man approached the table with measured step. A shadow walking through light. When the smaller woman didn't respond right away he frowned slightly in Youth's direction.
"Nin...look you spilled your drink."
He reached the table, and something in his practical words seemed to penetrate whatever thoughts she was caught in. Slowly she blinked up at Sam, as if just noticing his presence.
"What?"
Slowly he knelt down to eye level, and set the cup back on the table. Never taking his eyes from her's. "Your drink, you spilled it all over the floor. You better be careful or it will get on your shoes."
Slowly the low frequency buzz in the air began to disappear. Dropping her hands from her face she looked down at the ground. Moving her slippers away from the liquid, as she did so.
"I'm sorry Sam, I didn't mean to..."
Youth sat in his chair, staring across at the two, a sudden feeling bubbling up inside of him from a dark place. He took the last sip of his beer, and sat it down on the table in front of him, making a tapping noise as he did so.
"Yes, indeed, Sam. It appears a great many things are breaking loose round here." He said in a calm, deep, even voice.
She looked over at Youth her composure building back before his eyes, leaving nothing of her previous distress. Though the traces of sadness in her eyes was clear to anyone that knew her.
"Yes, it seems like my true talent lies in breaking things. Especially things I never had any intention of ever breaking."
With a small tired sigh Munin pushed away from the table.
"Put that, and whatever he is drinking, on my tab...I need some air. Good bye Youth."
For once she didn't bother to hear whatever their respective replies might have been. She simply slipped out of the room without another word, and soon she had disappeared down the stairs.
Samedi watched her go, and then turned his head back around to regard Youth with a much sterner expression than before. "Have you lost your mind, Redeemer? This could have just ended in catastrophe!"
Youth shot up out of his seat, his jaw set, his eyes like black orbs as they bore into the Cajun's. "Watch your tone with me, Priest, as you are no longer the only one with power here."
A thunder crackled in Youth's voice, and lightening could be seen dancing in his eyes, and the overall display shocked Samedi enough to cause him to take a step back. The Priest sank into the chair that Munin was occupying, suddenly feeling his age, knowing where this pent up dissension was coming from inside of the young man.
"I am sorry, Jason. I never intended for things to go so badly for you."
Youth let the power that was building in him fade, and he shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. He bit his lower lip to keep from letting it all hang out right there for the world to see, and made his way past Samedi towards the steps.
In his passing, his final words hung in the air, haunting the old man.
"Neither did I."
 *****SATURDAY June 4th, 2016 – Pure Arena Broadcasting Booth*****
The scene opens up with a shot of Press halfway sitting on an announce desk, the PAW logo hanging behind him as a backdrop, and the Heavyweight Championship sitting casually on the desk, the face plate facing forward. He just sat there for a moment, looking down at the ground in front of him, his long hair framing his face. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard.
“You haven’t heard from me in a while, and for that, I apologize. I know it’s customary for the guy whose face is on every promotional banner in the park to be the one who stays actively behind a camera, but let me tell you folks, being the champion of this gin joint is an exhausting job. There’s local T.V. spots, promotional ads, interviews with the papers, multiple appearances, talking with the major New Orleans’ radio shows, not to mention showing up every wrestling event whether you’re booked or not. Hey, I’m not complaining, just explaining, that this….”
He pats the championship.
“Is a full time job.”
He smirks a bit, leaning farther back and crossing his arms over his chest. The slight smile begins to fade, however, and his expression becomes distant.
“But if I’m being 100% honest, which is the very reason I think that I get over as well as I do with you fans, the truth is, I haven’t had much to say.”
He nods in affirmation, and then looks back to the camera with a serious tone.
“I know, I know. With everything that’s been going on around this place, how can I say that I don’t have anything to say, but let’s face facts. On three separate occasions I faced Stevie Harris, and on three separate occasions I put Stevie Harris down. Now I can’t say, ‘as simple as that’, cause there wasn’t a damn thing simple about it. Harris and I made war upon one another the likes that probably won’t be seen in PAW for many months to come. Psychological. Physical. Mental. Emotional. We ran the gamut around here about what people wanted to see out of their wrestling contests, and it was a lot more than just wrestling. And you know what’s so fucked up about it all? I’m not even the one who put the guy away.”
Press can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head despite himself.
“Those kudo’s belong to Johnny Raike. He did, what I couldn’t. He sent that sociopathic madman packing, and he never even had to get inside of a wrestling ring to do it. All it took was one phone call to the feds, and Stevie Harris got exactly what he deserved when he was placed in cuffs and thrown into the back of an FBI vehicle. So, Johnny, I tip my hat to you.”
He makes a gesture with his hand.
“But where does that leave me, huh? Personally, I’ve enjoyed just sitting back and watching as CJ O’Donnell and Calvin Harris have run rings around one another, arguing about who’s the real number one contender. I mean, I thought I was supposed to be the one with a target on my back, but it appears that honor falls to the guy who’s next in line to face me. While you two have been strutting around, bickering about which of you has the bigger Johnson, I’ve been biding my time, doing my thing, waiting to see which one of you was going to take possession of the yard.”
Press smirks, eyes turning to molten orbs.
“Either way, it didn’t really matter, cause at the end of the day, no matter how much you two crow about being the best, I’m still the ruler of the fucking hen house. And not just cause I say so either. It’s because THIS….”
He pats the championship once more.
“Says so. And until one of you step up to the plate and take it from me, all the talk in the world doesn’t mean a god damn thing. But hey, it all worked out in the end didn’t it. Johnny Raike and Calvin Harris are going to duke it out to find out who’s going to be the new #1 Contender, while the current contender finally gets his shot at the title.”
His jaw tightens.
“CJ O’Donnell. The Distinguished. You know, I’ve been wondering about that nickname. What the fuck does that even mean? The Distinguished? I know what Webster’s says; successful, authoritative, and commanding great respect. But is that really you, CJ? I mean shit, I can come up with all sorts of adjectives to describe you, kid, but distinguished isn’t one of them. Does it make you distinguished cause you stole this opportunity with a kiss? Does it make you distinguished because ever since that moment, way back at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, you’ve went on to lose every fucking match? Does it make you distinguished because at every single turn you’ve tried to lay me out with that running knee of yours, and every single time you’ve failed?”
Press gives the camera a ludicrous expression, shaking his head in disbelief.
“But hey, I guess we can’t put all the blame on you, can we? You’re a busy man. You’re on a national stage with 4CW, just coming down here to slum it with us hillbillies. Yeah, that’s right, CJ. I watch you on Adrenaline, you and your ‘Unstable’ boys running around, owning the place. You’ve done alright for yourself over there in the big promotion, that is, as long as nothing’s on the line. Your win record on Adrenaline is pretty amazing when you think about it, but what is it about that big fight feel that causes your cock to run up inside itself? Fright Night, LOSS! Winter Wasteland, LOSS! South Beach Brawl, LOSS! Hell, your PPV count is startling to look like your fucking PAW career.”
Press grins now, a twinkle in his eye.
“Well CJ, let me clue you in on something. This championship sitting beside me, it’s all some of us fucking have. We don’t have the ‘Big Wrasslin Promotion’ to fall back on when REAL competition rears its ugly head. So while you fucking ballerinas rake in the buckets of cash you swindle off the fools who haven’t discovered the indy revolution, the only thing us lower echelon peeps have ‘distinguished’ about you, is that you’re a fucking embarrassment to the sport of professional wrestling.”
Press shrugs his shoulders while simultaneously uncrossing his arms so that he can lean forward.
“All that aside, CJ, I can’t look past you. If you haven’t figured it out by now, let me make it crystal clear. This is important to me. It means something to have this title. Why do you think Johnny Raike and Calvin Harris have agreed to try and murder one another at Heat Stroke? Cause just the opportunity to contend for it is worth everything to us.”
Press spits in the corner, and then returns his glare to the camera.
“For all of your bullshit, you are a threat. I’ve seen what you can do in the ring. Hell, I saw what you did to my own partner. But that was then, this is now, and if it seems like I’m trying to fucking bury you, it’s because I am. My intention is to dump you on your head, just like I’ve done everyone else so far that’s been put in front of me. I’m going to do everything in my power to bring this fight to you in a way that you’ve never experienced, never even conceived of. I’m going to hurt you, CJ. Not because I hate you, and everything your type represents, but because it is what I fucking do. Ask Jack Swanson. Ask Cross Recoba. If you can get visitation, go ask Stevie fucking Harris.”
Press wipes the spittle from his lips, anger starting to boil over.
“Those aren’t threats, or big words, or the blustering of and oversized ego, CJ. Those are just the facts. So go ahead, hit me with your usual rebuttal. Tell me all about how great you are, and that you’re the best. Tell me all your honorifics, your accolades, and your claims to glory. Hell, call me out for talking about your losses, ask me if I’ve ever had setbacks. The answer is yes, CJ, and it’s those setbacks that have forged the man that stands before you today, and the very reason that I covet this championship even when it’s in my possession.”
The camera zooms in on those dark orbs, piercing out to grab anyone that’s watching.
“June 9th, 2016, will mark the day that men do battle. It will mark the day that CJ O’Donnell distinguishes himself as who he truly is, champion or corpse. I can’t make that decision for you, CJ, but I can be the guy that does everything in his power to make sure you’re the latter. I just hope you have enough left in you to cover the burial costs. Until, Heat Stroke, however, I have my own duties to attend to. It’s called being the fucking champion.”
Press grabs his belt before hopping off the desk, and exits the camera view before the scene fades to black.
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Post by odonnell on Jun 9, 2016 1:26:38 GMT
Fade up.
The Sistine Chapel, filled with illuminated musical manusripts and decorated by some of the most artistic and classical masterpiece's the world has ever seen. Perugino's, Botticelli's, and Ghirlandaio's fill the sacred walls while the Michelangelo's ceiling art is one of a kind. A place with dimensions of the Temple of Solomon certainly is suited for a man with such class. What better personal tour guide could we be blessed with than the PAW's very own Caleb James O'Donnell.
Caleb, clad with a navy DKNY leather bomber jacket with a tan cotton roll neck sweater underneath. As he peacefully walks into the chapel his casual Ralph Lauren jeans squeeze his muscle filled quads and gluten as he holds a clip board in front of his face. We can hear slight pencils sketches being made as he comes to a rest inches inside the building. To his left, images of the Testimonial and Death of Moses, to his right, a painting of Saint Sixtus II and Saint Felix I.
“Intriguing … Take a look around everyone, what we have before us is more than a work_of_art, it's a masterpiece that will live on forever. Eight years alone it took to construct a place of this caliber, eight years….”
Pulling the clip board away from his face we get a glimpse of the golden locks slicked back around ears. His baby blues pierce the minds of a dozen or so folks who have gathered around him for the official tour of nobility.
"Yet, that isn't even what gets to me the most. The thought of one man alone dedicating himself for four years to please the higher power, the pope. This man, Michelangelo reminds me a lot of someone I know. That someone is me….”
Egotistical, very… It's as though his words don't even factor into his mind, he just spits out these comments with no emotion what so ever. Black hearted, a cold soul, call it what you want, but change you will for never do.
"For it will not take four years for me to accomplish the feat at hand but one simple match if you may. You see this match is dedicated to sketching out what lies ahead for my PAW future. My opponent, Press, is nothing but an outline to my future. I look at him and see a soul who once was a man with promise. But Press was never able to achieve his goal, he fell at the hands of greatness on more than one occasion. You see folks, unlike the great Michelangelo, Press failed to draft out his career in advance.”
Several hands raise from tourists in the crowd that is increasingly growing. However, the careless O'Donnell choose to ignore them and continue his tour.
"To our left you will notice a thoughtful panel dedicated to the Testimonial of Moses. This painting reminds me of the very same Press for he too gracefully pleasured us with a sobbing story of his past failures. His dreams, his desires, his faults.... But like Moses, Press's testimonial will soon be followed by his the dismantling of his existence.”
Several more hands shoot out from the crowd but Caleb neglects to recognize them once again. Instead, he turns away from them and begins to walk across the wide floor of the Sistine Chapel. Making his way across the now bare grounds of the chapel . His professor like voice echoes threw the nearly empty tourist attraction.
"Next up we have the very unique mural. A rare look at what we believe represents the "Last Supper." Sixteen people, dressed in robes as they sit along side the dinner table. One man, our Lord and savior, sits alone on the other side. Jesus, a man of such perfection, would stand out wherever he went. It wasn't because he was ten feet tall or weighed hundreds of pounds but because of the way he represented himself. Such poise, such finesse, such class….”
Most of us would disagree as Jesus would represent himself as a humble man dressed like everyone else. Simple robes and garnishes, nothing fancy. Yet, perfection, he hit that one on the dot.
"For you see much like myself Jesus stood far and beyond the rest. His god given power is far superior to any other man that you would ever have met in your day. Fifteen other people, sitting around clinging to every word that would leave his mouth, drooling over the preachings that he made. Jesus, well he's everywhere, and he’s everything….”
Comparing himself to Jesus is quite a mouthful. Now, surrounded by nearly thirty people Caleb stands, clip board still in tact, preaching out to those wishing to learn.
"But unlike Jesus, Press believes he truly is Mr. Everything. He believes just because he is the PAW Heavyweight Champion that people should worship the ground that he walks on. Such power in his words and confidence in his mind. Shouting towards the big dog Lady Munin to lay down all her cards on the table. But Press, for once in your life take a second and think to yourself, do I belong at the table with such men as Caleb O'Donnell, do I belong at the table of Jesus Christ? Do you know you are playing with fire when you piss off someone like Lady Munin? Now I am sure you will say you are not afraid to get burnt but I know never to cross a woman as she will never forget.”
Some people towards the back who have just walked in on this once in a life time tour from The Distinguished can be seen scratching their heads. They are a bit confused to the ongoing comparisons Caleb continues to speak of. However, they move in towards the speaker of the house listening to his every word.
"You see Press, chances are you will decide to take a seat at our table, you will place your arms down upon the table cloth and join in on our conversations. You will judge others, even go as far to call them names from time to time. But Press my friend, like so many others have learned you can only sit for so long. Press you are no longer the hunter you are the hunter. You have gotten comfortable since winning that PAW Heavyweight Champion. Your eyes tell a completely different story than what you are saying. And guess what eyes never lie. So Press, if you do decide to sit out our table, I hope you enjoy the supper I bring to you, for it will be your last….”
Eager tourists begin raising their hands at a rate that practically forces Caleb to finally acknowledge their presence. He rolls his crystalline eyes into his head as he neglectfully waves his hands towards a young female several feet away from him.
"Mister O'Donnell? What does this all have to do with the Sistine Chapel?”
Several spectators nod their heads while a few agreeing voices can be heard saying the smallest of insignificant words. Caleb, feeling disrespected, brushes his fingers threw his hair as he lets out a soft sigh.
"People, people, people.... Have you failed to grasp the significance before you. It's as if hundreds of years ago the most religious men in the world built this place knowing it would stand for something so powerful, so spiritual, so significant. When Pope Sixtus IV della Rovere reigned as the head of the Catholic religion during 1475 he asked Gionvannino de' Dolci to supervise the construction of what you see today. Knowing that the future would hold the key to our well beings he persistently kept on top of this task. For he knew once the religious era of the world was completely over taken by the corrupt necessities that people much like ourselves would crave there would need to be a place to look back on it all. Today is that day. Today we are on the brink of Purgatory.”
Wishing to ignore the crowd before him Caleb simply turns away again. He peers around the Sistine Chapel till his eyes lock on a certain painting. There, only inches away from where he stands is another painting that catches his eye. The camera attempts to zoom in but the hands of viewers block his view. However, we are able to get a quick glimpse of several crowds of people gathering around two men.
"Awe! A brilliant piece by Pietro Perugino entitled “Handing over the keys." If you take a minute to focus your attention to the elder man down upon his knees his eyes are that of a young child looking up to another man in envy. This man, he has had his day as the master of the house. This man has had his day in the spotlight, he has been the center of attention, he has his moment of glory. This man, his time has come to hand over the keys to his successor. This man, on his knees, well he reminds me of someone I know of, you guess it Press.”
"This dog definitely has had his day. Press has seen his time in the spotlight and definitely had his fair share of glory. What has Press done since winning the title? Nothing. He has stayed silent. Now I am sure you can same this is the pot calling the kettle black type of reference but I had good reasons to be silent. It was part of my strategy. I wanted Press to think he has gotten the best of me. That he is fighting a broken man when in reality I am as stronger as an ox. Simple minded people eat meat thinking it will make them strong. Well newsflash people the Ox eats grass.”
It seems as though the questions have faded, all eyes are like ice on O'Donnell as there devoted attention belongs to him. The people, putty in his hands, grasp onto every word that he speaks of, every analysis that he makes.
"But it is the day were you place yourself in a position to step away from the shadows of your successor that you are handed down the fortune that you crave for. You have only once chance to seize that moment and I will do just that when we battle Press. I stand before you as what I truly am, a man of Unstable.”
I think we all know where this is going. Caleb, standing as if were on top of the world with his hands at his side and no arch in his back. Top to bottom he represents a class that truly is one of a kind.
"But my time has come, much like Press, to have the keys handed to me. Press, like the man that kneels down in this picture, you are old, you are weak, your time is finished. It is time for Pure Amusement Wrestling to become Distinguished…”
Speechless, the crowd follows Caleb O'Donnell as he passes up the dozens of pictures along the walls, not even glaring towards the ceiling filled with passionate work above him. Instead, Caleb, as if he knew exactly where he was makes his way towards the North end of the room, to the golden altar.
"Here we are, the last painting added to the Sistine Chapel. Fittingly enough, it is entitled the "Last Judgment." Michelangelo revisited the chapel dozens of years later to finish of this amazing piece overlooking the altar that we stand before. Filled with angels carrying everything from columns to the most symbolizing object in all religious beliefs, a cross. But take your minds away from the angels, take your eyes away from the trumpeters spread throughout, if I may direct your attention away from all the cluttered commotion and have you look at something else. Please, take a look in the far right corner, what do you see?”
The now grown crowd of nearly sixty people move in as close as they possibly can. Hanging their bodies over the red ropes that act as a road block to touching anything worth value. Everyone in the chapel, every soul, mind, body, thought, and eye is locked onto the bottom right corner of the extravagant picture.
"What do you see? Yes, you…”
Caleb calls upon a man, middle age, dressed fairly warm. The man, balding head and all, clears his throat as he licks his dry lips in anticipation of speaking. The chatter filled crowd dies down as the man's voice graces them all.
"A bunch of naked people…”
Laughter breaks out throughout the crowd as even the arrogant Caleb O'Donnell can't help but to smile. He shakes his head showing signs of his old self for the first time in over a month. However, his grinning lips quickly fade away as he calls upon another person.
"You! Miss, tell me what you see?”
The women pauses regaining her focus as she too was filled with laughter. She regains her posture as she takes another step closer as she squints her eyes towards the picture.
"I see a bunch of men, fighting, tearing each other apart.”
“Very good. For those of you who lack the perceptiveness of this young lady I would like for all of you to take look towards what she spoke of.”
Sure enough all eyes are directed towards the bare bodies whose hands are around one another’s throat. A small boat, preparing itself to tip over, a man with a serpent lingering around his chest. Blood, overlapping the skin of every person while deceased bodies lay at some of their feet. This portion of Michelangelo's piece carries the title "The Damned Dragged Into Hell."
"These were the men who thought they were above the sins that carry within each and everyone of us. These were the others who thought they were above and beyond the low life that Satan may be. These warriors, they too fell at the hands of hate, scorn, and death.”
As people look on confused they restrict themselves from asking questions as Caleb time and time again has found a way to explain everything to them. As several people scratch their heads other nod as if they actually knew what was going on.
"These are the men that think they are better then us. These are the men who walk life trying to play by the rules. But the truth is there are no rules, anything goes. These brave men will be forced to place their iron will on the line to see if they can out last the creatures that they shunned for so many years. But like the men who do not have a voice, they too will fall at the feet of Purgatory….”
Caleb presses the clip board against his chest as he steps threw the gawking crowd. Several people shout towards him but like the beginning of the tour, he will have nothing of it. The camera pans around the Sistine Chapel one last time it finally comes back with one final shot of Caleb looking back towards the "Last Judgment" and then finally fades to black.
2 Months Ago
An overly happy ringtone rang for almost a minute, before it was mercifully cut off with an answer.
“Hello?”
The voice while nasally due to obvious stuffiness was unmistakably Leslie's. Her faint British accent coloring her words more heavily than usual.
“Took you long enough to answer the phone.”
You could hear the concern in the male voice on the other end of the line.
“So you canceled our meeting and you couldn’t even call me yourself. You had some dumb blonde bimbo by the name of Jessica or something like that do it. I thought we were knocking down these walls together Leslie?”
There was a pause filled with a sudden cough and sniffle.
“Caleb, I asked Jessica to cancel all my appointments at around 3am this morn-sniff-ing. I didn't even remember our appointment was today. I'm sorry, but it really is better if you don't come over I'm all sniffly and disgusting. Even after a shower I feel gross.”
Little did she know that Caleb was already outside her apartment building, and was being let in by a neighbor. While she continued to speak he made his way to her front door, and knocked with a small amused smile. Touched with mischief of course.
“Caleb did you hear- Oh hold on someone is at the door.”
The sound of rustling blankets could be heard over the phone, with a few unintelligible mumblings thrown in for good measure.
“One moment please.”
Soon the sound of a door unlocking could be heard. The door opened to reveal a less than dignified Leslie. Her brown curls were mussed around her face, and a red fluffy blanket served as a robe. Somehow she seemed smaller than usual, and her big hazel green eyes seemed even larger against her paler than usual porcelain like skin. The effect was far from disgusting. In fact it was quite adorable, especially with the look of surprise on her face.
“Caleb?”
Realizing she was still talking on the phone she quickly turned it off, and held it at her side. Blankets have no pockets after all.
“What are you doing here?”
As Caleb just looked at her as Leslie sneezed.
“God Bless You.”
As Caleb entered Leslie’s apartment and she closed the door behind him. You notice Caleb has a brown paper bag in his hand.
“Did you really think you could pull one over on me of all people. Come on Leslie I am a very resourceful man and I knew it wasn’t like you when you canceled our meeting. So I did some digging and found out a few things about you.”
As Caleb makes his way into the kitchen he notices tissues are everywhere in the apartment.
“I mean even though you look like a cute little burrito wrapped up that blanket I figured it was time to take this relationship to the next level.”
Leslie looked at Caleb a bit confused while she blew her nose.
“I want you to lay on the couch or bed and I am going to take care of you.”
As Caleb places the brown bag on the counter next to the refrigerator he opens up a cabinet next to the stove and finds a small pot. He pulls it out and places it on top of the stove. Caleb reaches into the bag and pulls out Leslie’s favorite type of soup. Leslie looks a bit shocked that he knew her favorite soup without even asking her.
Leslie watched her first asian soup heat on the stove; fresh broccoli, mushrooms, baby corn, water chestnuts, wontons, beef, pork, and chicken simmering to perfection in a hearty chicken broth. Her eyes almost teared up with the joy of someone who has been too miserable to actually make anything to eat.
“You brought me my favorite soup...thank you.”
Her voice was filled with the wonder that some women have when give diamond covered jewelry.
As O’Donnell stirs the soup on the stove with a wooden spoon.
“No need to thank me. You are not superwoman and I figured a little pampering is just what the doctor orders. So please Leslie go and sit down on the couch and rest.”
Caleb takes the spoon out of the soup as it is still heating up and places it on the spoon rest in the middle of the stove.
After a moment Leslie nodded her head in agreeance and shuffled her way to the couch. There she snuggled into the deep overly soft grey cushion.
“Are you comfy? Do you need anything else?”
As CJ looks over at Leslie wrapped up in her blanket.
“No I'm perfect.”
She let out a sigh of contentment, and finally relaxed. Lazily she closed her eyes, and listened to him move around her kitchen. The sounds and his presence oddly enough lulled her into a near trance like state. Who would have thought she would be so comfortable with a man moving around so comfortably in her house. Especially a man with a presence as big as Caleb's.
As Caleb approached her with the soup in his hand he noticed that her eyes were closed. He was trying to be as quiet as possible so he did not startle his sleeping beauty. He placed the soup on the table in front of the couch and he gently touched Leslie on her right arm.
“Leslie be careful your soup is right in front of you. Is there anything else I can get you?”
After a few sleepy blinks, Leslie sits up with a small yawn.
“No, you have already done so much…”
Her eyes lit up when they fell on the First Asian soup, and within a moment she was bringing it close to savor.
“Thank you for this Caleb.”
The warm chicken broth was a balm to her sore throat, the three meats and chicken wontons nearly melted in her mouth, and the crunchy Asian vegetables were cooked to perfection.
“This is heaven…”
With a happy sigh she continued to eat, with dainty careful bites. For once not caring that someone was watching her.
As Caleb watches Leslie eat her soup a small smile comes across his face.
“No need to thank me that is what boyfriends do..”
Caleb realized he just used a word that he hasn't said before to Leslie. Wondering what was going through her mind he quickly changed the subject so there is no dead air.
“So just sit back and relax Leslie. If there is anything else I can do just let me know.”
Caleb places his right hand on the middle of Leslie's back and begins to rub it softly to help her with the ackiness.
Between the warm soup and cold medicine she was beginning to feel fuzzy. Caleb's unconscious words left her slightly dazed and even more light headed, his question fell on deaf ears. His touch though...his gentle touch fell over her like a blanket of warmth.
Setting her bowl to the side she moved to lean against him, and burrowed close into his warmth with a content sigh.
A smile came across the face of The Distinguished as he put her arm around Leslie.
“I am just going to stay for a while to make sure you don't need anything else. So take a nap and relax so you can feel better soon as I have somewhere I’d love to take you.”
As Leslie hair falls over her face Caleb with his free hand brushes it off her face behind her left ear.
“Where?”
“I can't tell you that would ruin the surprise. Just get better please as that would make me a happy fella …”
A small smile curved her lips, her dark dust of lashes never raising from her cheeks.
“I do like you...be..ing..”
A small yawn cut her words off for a moment, before she finished.
“Happy…”
And with that last word she said goodbye to visit the land of sleep. As Caleb looks down he notices that Leslie is knocked out on his chest. The camera fades out.
The scene opens up to show a corridor, with just dim lighting all the way down. Somewhere down the corridor, a shadow begins to move. The shadow is that of a man, his frame seems muscular, but the thing that stands out most is the confidence this man has. You can tell by his posture and the way he presents himself. As the man walks towards the camera, he speaks, and his voice echoes down the corridor. It is a deep voice, and the accent is unmistakable, only likely to be from the northern part of Boston.
" A darkness reigns over the world of wrestling. A darkness in which there are many stars, some brighter than others, but all bring a small amount of light to this great sport. Each one has its own place in the night sky.”
He passes through the focus of one of the dim lights, showing up the shoulder length black hair, and a muscular figure, but before you get chance to get a good look, he has moved forward again.
" People seem to be happy with the darkness in which they are in, looking to the stars, and admiring them. But although each star is special and different in it's own way, many wish for a star that will set the world of e-wrestling alight, a star that will shine bright for all to see, bringing the world of e-wrestling to brighter, better days.”
The man passes through another light, this time you are more prepared, and you make out that the man is under six feet in height.
" People now look to the Pure Amusement Wrestling, where a new breed of wrestler awaits to show the world just what they can do. Is this new bright star to emerge from this promotion? Maybe. They look at the list of athletes, and they see a few names that they may already recognize. Press, Flaming Youth, Alexandra Kelly, Bryan Williams and Lex Collins, are all well known for their exploits around the world. But what about the other men and women on the roster? Who has heard of these men?”
The man now steps into the brightest light in the corridor, and stops walking, he is wearing blue jeans, and on the T-Shirt he wears, a word is written, it says Unstable. Even if the man didn’t show his face you can tell by that word that this in number one contender for the PAW Heavyweight Championship, Caleb James O’Donnell.
" Yes, the man from Boston, Massachusetts, is here in PAW for one reason and one reason alone, to bring in a new era, a new light if you will, to the world of wrestling. PAW is my chance to bring my unique light to the world. Many have heard of Press, but few realize just who he is and what he is about.”
A brief pause from The Distinguished.
"Preston Jones grew up with his grandparents in a low rent district of Jacksonville, Florida. His mother had been a drug addict in and out of rehab, and at the age of six eventually stopped coming around all together. He never knew his biological father. His grandparents were good people, but they didn't know exactly what to do with the troubled youth. Preston was always a gifted athlete, and played football and basketball in high school, that is, when he wasn't serving community service for one of his many indiscretions. When he turned eighteen he already had a well founded reputation as a trouble maker, was on the verge of being expelled from school, and had caused his grandparents a lot of grief and worry. Feeling as he had no other choices, and no where else to turn, he enlisted with the Army.”
“Army life taught him a great deal about discipline and what he could physically do if he put his mind to it, although his attitude continued to be a problem. After learning of his grandparent's deaths due to a burglary, he grew even more despondent to authority. After only two years of service he was finally discharged due to misconduct, and returned to Jacksonville to work as a bouncer. One night, at one of the bars he was working for, he ran into an old friend from high school who had taken on the challenge of Professional Wrestling. After chatting, Press joined the training crew at Doug Newenski's gym, a pro in the business who had wrestled all over the world but hadn't really ever gotten over.”
”Press, much like with the other sports, took to wrestling easily which was impressive even it was for just his size alone. It wasn't long before he was working matches in several different indies in Florida and Georgia. Before long he ran into a few guys who had recently left one of the national circuits, and they made a call on his behalf. The next week he was on TCWF television. Up to this point he had always been a singles wrestler, but he wasn't faring too well. After several stints in different developmental shows, the head booker for TCWF finally decided that perhaps he should be paired up with someone, and introduced the big man to a young guy by the name of Flaming Youth.”
“Well the history between those two is like they are two peas in a pod. Wherever one goes the other one goes. Now I am sure Youth will be watching in the back to have his buddies back but you see I have a wild card. Someone no one expected to have my back by the name of Lex Collins. Why you may ask? That is because Claire Collins is part of Unstable. Now sure he may not be an official member of Unstable but Lex knows what this title match means to Unstable. If I walk out of Heat Stroke as PAW Heavyweight Champion it shows that Unstable has tasted championship in a fifth promotion in less than a year.”
O'Donnell brushes his reddish hair out of his eyes with his right hand, his eyes now staring into yours deeply through the screen.
" Any good wrestler always knows what is lying in wait when they get in the ring with me, but through their ignorance, they have all taken me on, and many have fallen by the wayside. I am only now beginning to get recognition I deserve.”
" After Heat Stroke, the whole world will begin to realize the brightness this star holds, and with no restraints placed on me, this Star will rise into the sky, and light up a new day for the world of wrestling. But for me to do so, another star stands in my way, a man by the name of Press.”
The camera now focuses on O'Donnell's eyes, showing them to be grey, but in the middle, there is a burst of the color green, almost like a starburst in his eyes.
"Press, for this star's light to shine, it must first extinguish your own. You stand in my way, and your light must be set to rest in this match, but as they say Press…”
The screen zooms out to show O'Donnell's whole face, where there is now a weary smile.
" One man's sunset, is another man's dawn. At Heat Stroke, my dawn begins. As does a new era for wrestling here in PAW!”
No Perks…
No Regrets…
No Mercy…
Fade to Black.
One Month Ago
The camera fades in and you see a bunch of tissues on the floor and you see part of a green blanket hanging off the side off of the couch. As the camera pans up you see Caleb James O’Donnell laying on the couch all bundled up. It is obvious CJ has caught a cold but he still has on the television and is watching reruns of Saved By The Bell. You know the episode, it is the one where Kelly breaks Zac’s heart because her father lost his job and she gives her prom dress money to help support her family.
Caleb begins to doze off a bit as he hears a faint knock in the background but he thinks he is dreaming. As the door swings open in walks Leslie Blackwell. She is being as quiet as she can be as she does not want to disturb The Distinguished whom she believes is resting.
The touch of her soft cool hand was like a balm against his heated flesh. The smell of vanilla with a hint of lemon tickled his nose. The effect was similar to that of lemon cookies straight from the oven.
As Caleb opened his eyes his vision was still blurry but he could tell it was a woman who smelt very good. CJ rubbed his eyes and noticed it was none other than his girlfriend/manager Leslie Blackwell. A smile came to his face as he tried to push himself up on the couch so he could sit up.
“I would ask you how you got in here but I remember I gave you a key a while ago. Very ninja esque being so quiet not even a mouse could hear you. Please don't get too close I don't need you to get sick again.”
She removed her hand to give him a small kiss on the forehead. Her soft lips trailing down his cheek to press against his own in a gentle kiss.
“I hate to break this to you, but you are in no condition to stop me. Besides I come bearing gifts.”
CJ nods in agreement with Leslie as he knows he is in no shape to argue with a woman on a mission.
“Bearing gifts, but why it is not my birthday or any special holiday. Oh shit, it is our 3 month anniversary already.”
Caleb coughs a little as he looks up at his gorgeous girlfriend.
“Don't get yourself worked up...You're sick, I didn't expect you to remember with the way you feel.”
This was said in her typical business like manner, but her tone was completely different. There was a warmth there that was noticeably lacking with others, a softness around the edges of an often sharp tone.
“I brought you potato soup from the “Lion's Pub” Mrs. Mary loaded it down with extra cheese and bacon. I think the old girl has a crush on you.”
She winked at him with a teasing smile. They both knew older woman treated him the same way she would her own boys.
Caleb licks his lips just thinking about that potato soup loaded with extra cheese and bacon.
“You know that is Mrs. Mary's secret recipe. I've tried and tried to get her to give it to me, but she said I have to be a part of the family to get it. While I'm sure that soup is going to hit the spot I have a feeling you have other motives as well.”
Leslie sat down in the nearby arm chair, so that Caleb has enough room to move.
“I know my woman well and your mind is always going in at least six different directions.”
As Caleb sits up to get some of that famous soup he is careful not to burn the roof of his mouth.
“I just want to take care of you. I seem to remember someone taking care of me a month ago when I was sick.”
Her smile showed that while she hated to have him sick, she did find the coincidence amusing. CJ nods his head as he puts another spoonful of the soup in his mouth.
“I did but I also remember how stubborn someone was in the beginning and didn't want help. I guess I impressed you with my skills around the kitchen and how I clean up.”
Leslie chuckled a bit because it was true. He cleaned things the same way she did,and that had impressed her.
“I think that after your soup a hot bath or shower is in order.”
Caleb thinks for a moment as he responds with a smirk on his face.
“You are just trying to see the whole package. You are going old school with your remedies and thinking a good sweat will get the germs out of me. I know where you are going with this and if that's what Doctor Leslie orders are then fine by me.”
Leslie's eyebrows lifted at his words. How he could manage such an innocent boyish smile when saying something like that was beyond her.
“Easy tiger, are you sure you could handle the…exercise?”
“I may be sick but I am not dead. But remember if you are going that route I hope your schedule is cleared for the next five days. You're gonna burn so many calories and be sore for a couple of days. You will need one full day to sleep and relax. Twelve to sixteen hour to recharge the batteries with fluids and carbohydrates. And the rest of the time you will be at my mercy.”
Leaning forward with a devilish smile, Leslie licked a drop of soup from Caleb's bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.
“You can't fool me Caleb I know you have no mercy. That's why I cleared my schedule for our anniversary before you got sick.”
She leaned back once more with a teasing wink, and began to look through her bag once more.
“First things first though, you have to eat and take your medicine.”
She pulled out two pharmacy bags, and almost laughed at the scowl Caleb gave them. The man was definitely not a fan of taking his medicine.
“Now don't be like that. Take your medicine now, and I'll make it worth your while later.”
Caleb opens up the pharmacy bag and pops up one of the bottles of his prescription. He throws two pills in his mouth and uses the broth to swallow the pills.
“Done. You can be such a tease you know. I'll remember that and payback is gonna be a …”
Caleb stops and winks at Leslie before he puts a sad face on to try and get his way.
“Pills are taken so in about thirty minutes I am going to make sure I get that shower, bath or sponge bath. So you better be ready for a workout.”
As he spoke Leslie unbuttoned her shirt jacket and shrugged out of it, before releasing her rich brown locks from their bun. The curls teased the curves of her breast that were hugged by a light gold button down shirt.
“A workout hmm? Well, I seem to remember that bathtub being more than big enough for two. Though after the bath I was planning on giving you a back rub, and maybe doing a bit more exercise than you…”
“Well, we can test that theory out.”
Caleb stands up from the couch and leaves the blanket on the couch revealing that he is shirtless and wearing only a pair of green mesh basketball shorts.
“Let’s go. Oh and after that back rub I’ll be sure to repay the favor and give you that foot massage.”
Leslie allowed her eyes to trace of his body with appreciation.
“That sounds like the perfect anniversary.”
“The night is still young and we have so much trouble we can get into.”
As Caleb walks pass Leslie and into the bathroom a smirk appeared across his face. There just happens to be a lollipop red in flavor on the sink countertop.
“Here and it is cherry in flavor also your favorite right?”
Caleb winks at Leslie.
Leslie couldn't hold back her laughter at the comment, or the small blush that highlighted her cheeks. This man had turned her neat orderly life upside down in so many ways, and yet she didn't regret it. Not one little bit. Life truly was a funny, and wonderful.
She stood and followed closely behind her Unstable Gentleman. Marbling over how the past few months had changed her. For so long she thought that to keep her life together she had to have a stranglehold on it. In all honesty though looking back she hadn't been living, she was just surviving.
Before either Caleb or Leslie say another word you fade out to the image of them walking hand in hand showing that their relationship is getting stronger with each passing day.
We fade slowly to black.
A gentle yet artificial and cold tap, tap, tap of metal on metal.
Slowly you hear the sound of a key turning in a door. A thrust as the lock is drawn back and a slow, medical slice of noise as the door is, we assume, pushed open.
Click.
Click.
Click.
A triangle of light creeps around the corner of a long drawn out corridor. A figure stands, or rather rests up against the clinical, medical grey colored wall. Tiled, clean, sterile.
"All my life I've been fighting.”
The voice is deep, tinged with an accent. It comes at us slowly and most disturbing, completely calm. The figure casts a glance up, still shrouded in relative darkness. One side of his face is illuminated far beyond what we can see; the other is pitch black. He is powerful, that much is obvious. Broad shoulders mean he is forced to stand at a more acute angle than perhaps an ordinary man could. His hands are held down at his waist, by the movement in his shoulders it's obvious he is working something around and around. Our only clue is a few specks of round light.
"All my life I have been battling to simply survive.”
Still the door creeks open, with it the figures shadow grows. It is getting closer and closer with each second, elongated and distorted.
"And I got lucky because I made it here.”
PAW reads his T-shirt, the white jagged typeface is recognizable. His head is bowed, still in relative darkness as he looks at his hands passing a chain of rosary beads from one to the other.
"But YOU had to stand in my way again.”
A static flash of light from behind the figure as he looks up.
"Why did you do that? Why did you have to get involved?”
Almost strobing, it's eclectic. Too much for the eye to take. To much information to comprehend. Focus on the figure? The light? Its source? The surroundings?
"This was a chance for me, this was an opportunity to show all the doubters that I could be somebody, that I could make it alone. You think I'm going to let you stand in my way. Do you really think I am going to let you take that from me...I'd rather see you dead than give this up. I would rather watch you
bleed your way out of this world than let you snatch it out of my grasp.”
One man somewhere is having this very nightmare, his name - Press. All he can see is this man, all he can think about is just what is going to happen when they meet. All that runs through his mind is panic, crisis, fear as he meets this man face to face. Uncontrolled, unrestricted, unrivaled...this man, the man who stands before us now The Distinguished Caleb James O’Donnell.
"And now it looks like I have my wish at last.”
A brief and unexpectedly sustained flash of light comes from behind, O'Donnell is blessed with a surprising halo as a room behind him lights up. His reflection and that of the camera faintly distort its contents, a long, long silver basin and a chair. But this is no ordinary chair, this is the chair used to take away life, heavy duty leather straps and shining silver buckles rest on the arms. A thick head guard juts out, the wood is worn, the ground underneath stained. The only blemish in an otherwise clinically sterile environment.
"It's time we end it Press.”
Now we see, we see the face, the man that truly owns you. It has been a long build up Press, but now you see, now you know that there really is NOTHING you can do to avoid this.
"Press, I have been waiting for this for a very long time. I have no doubt that you have been as well, but just how far are you prepared to push yourself? How far are you willing to take things when we meet?”
"How much do you want this Press? How many nights sleep have you missed thinking about exactly what this means? What do you have planned inside that head of yours for me? I'd love to know Press because if you have half the venom inside as I do...well, one of us won't be leaving that ring by our own means. I've dreamt about Heat Stroke for endless nights Press, I have been thinking about it every waking moment of every day and each time I do, each time I think about what I am going to do to you I can't help but smile. You just don't realize Press, you cannot possibly imagine what you have walked in to this time.”
"Every time I close my eyes I see something new, a new threat to your life. Another way to end this. So many things Press, I'm plagued by it, haunted by all the ways I could put you away for good. It's bloody Press, its cruel, it’s painful. It's everything this nightmare should be and it's coming true, Press. No cowards, no attacks, no excuses. Just you, me and whatever cards we deal out to each other.”
O'Donnell takes a step forwards, a powerful, definite step in our direction. His eyes quite simply burn with desire, the green color jumps out. His face is completely straight, angled and chiseled all the way; he is there, in front of us. Hands by his side, each one straining as he clasps the Rosary beads. Every vein is pronounced and jumping with adrenaline, every muscle is taut, rigid with utter hatred. How can you not fear this?
"Would you stop? Or would you just keep on going until you had beaten me until I couldn't bleed any more. That's what this means to me Press. This has nothing to do with anyone but me and you. Forget everything you know and welcome the pain you are about to experience on Heat Stroke.”
O'Donnell takes a long, deep breath. His head cocks back as he sucks in the emptiness of the corridor, his nose comes alive with the smell of the sterile walls, the disinfectant, the unnatural calm. It makes his hands pulse and his chest bulge but somehow he continues.
"Because you have NEVER experienced anything like Caleb James O'Donnell, I swear to God Press, you are going to wish that you had never been born because I am not going to stop at the bell, I am not going to stop when you beg me to. I am going to make sure you NEVER, EVER get into the ring with me again. I don’t care if I cripple you, I don't care if I kill you. I just don't care Press because I…”
O'Donnell's hands tear apart the Rosary beads, they fall in a dramatic fit of motion, tearing away his physical and mental shackles. His left hand is sent crashing into the wall. He doesn't even recoil as his knuckles smash through the tiling, a cloud of dust spills up. His forearm is an instant mess of blood, dust and pumping veins.
"You see Press, it is that simple. I want to make you suffer, I want to make you hurt like never before. I need to hear you wheeze, watch you bleed and see you beg in front of me and those fans. I need that power Press, I need to take away everything that you have ever worked for. I want to be the one who ruined your life. Who ends your career…”
O'Donnell draws his left hand up and rubs it across his face, a thin veil of crimson settles over his forehead. Slowly he clenches his fists together, a slow grimace creeps over him.
"Ever since the beginning you have been the thorn in my side for so, so long Press. That constant knowledge that you…”
“YOU DON'T RESPECT ME. WHY?”
“HOW DARE YOU PRESS…"
“I deserve that Press, I damn well OWN you and yet you keep opening your mouth and getting in my way. That's enough to make me want to see you bleed Press. You seriously think this is a game, that you can keep on playing without getting hurt? Press, I just raised the stakes. It's all in so lets see your hand Press. Let's see what you got. This is your chance Press, this is your big opportunity to prove to me that you aren't just some nobody. Can you do that Press?”
And then, all of a sudden back to relative calm. O'Donnell's grip loosens and his arms flail down beside him. His neck relaxes and his head is free to scan around. A quick glimpse at the broken tiles, the spilled beads and then back up to camera.
”I hold two cards in my hand, intensity and desire. I cannot, will not LET you beat me Press and I will do whatever it takes to ensure that I am the only one left standing come Thursday, whether I have blood streaming down my face or not is up to you. But I guarantee that Heat Stroke will be the end for you, one way or another, you are OVER.”
O'Donnell turns and looks into the back lit room, there it stands. He stands silent, motionless for a few seconds.
"We end it now.”
“Not because I can…”
“Not because I want to,”
“Simply because,”
“I…"
“AM…"
“BETTER!”
His voice trails off...
Click.
Click.
Click.
And we are plunged back into silent darkness as the camera fades to black.
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