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Post by The BombTrax on Sept 11, 2016 6:46:50 GMT
SEAT OF POWER – Chapter 6
The French Quarter Bourbon Street – New Orleans, Louisiana 9/8/2016 – 3:00 AM
The Pontiac rumbled slowly down the short stretch of road that was Bourban Street. The various taverns and clubs that ran along the famed area of The French Quarter still bustling with a little life despite the late hour. Press sat in the driver’s seat, which was customary, one massive hand wrapped around the top of the steering wheel while the other rested on the gear shift to his right. If any of the street people cared, they would have noticed the look of worry in his eyes, along with the light scars of freshly removed stitches.
In the passenger’s seat was Youth, arms crossed over his chest as the light ocean breeze seeped into the car from his open window. He was leaned far back into the seat, with both feet thrown up by the side mirror, one stacked on top of the other in a leisurely fashion. He too wore a worried expression, and his mind was ticking down like a meter over the conversation he had with Samedi just a few hours ago.
The Cajun was vague in his explanation over the phone, which wasn’t too out of the ordinary for the Voodoo Priest, but it was the tone of voice in which he had said it. Apparently his home, ‘The Emporium’, had been burglarized, but he and Bobby, his friend and servant, were just now finding out about it. He had implored them to both come at once, fearing that his phones might be bugged, and wishing for a face to face conversation.
At first Youth had thought that it was a joke, but when the Cajun started conjuring up big hoodia curse words, he knew that it must be serious. After telling Press, the two men had made haste towards the Emporium, and now that they were getting closer he could feel the hairs starting to stand up on the back of his neck. This wasn’t coincidence. He had felt something big was about to happen a few weeks ago, but when he had tried to express this to his partner, the big man had passed it off as one of his folly’s. Just him worrying to be worrying. After all this time, after all these years, he still had to prove himself to get the big lummox to realize that there were no goofs when it came to the powers that they had been given from the on High.
It wasn’t any huge surprise, however, as both men had been struggling with their own personal issues. Press with his feelings for their boss, Lady Munin, and Youth with his place on the team after being so far eclipsed by his partner. On camera, the duo of The BombTrax were their usual selves, bouncing around backstage, stirring up trouble, doling out a beating or two, and taking a few in return.
In real life, however, their relationship was most definitely strained. Youth had broken a cardinal rule of guydom when he told Munin about Press’ feelings for her, and despite the Big Man saying that things were fine, he could tell that they weren’t. Not to mention that, despite having success in both of their given professions, the aftermath of those successes was still working itself out.
Both men had been victorious at Bad Moon Rising, Youth against a returning Recoba, and Press in his PAW Heavyweight Title defense against Calvin Harris. It wasn’t just a shock to the fans when Deus appeared on the stage behind Press and laid into him with brass knuckles. No one saw that coming, including The BombTrax. The burn marks from the electrified steel cage, mingled in with the bumps and bruises associated with such a match, paled in comparison to the 38 stitches he had received in his face after Deus.
Instead of going out on the town to celebrate, they found themselves sitting in a hospital room awaiting word to see if there was a concussion or not. Thankfully, there wasn’t, but even Youth didn’t understand how considering what he had witnessed from the monitor backstage.
Deus was a force of nature that no one but The BombTrax could really appreciate. People like Calvin Harris had too much ego to let what happened sink in as a warning, and people like Jack Nomad were just stupid enough to see it as a challenge rather than the threat that it was. Soon enough, everyone would feel the long reaching ramifications of letting someone like that on the roster, another point that Youth and Press didn’t completely agree upon.
Press was certain that they could handle the enigma, but Youth was a little more cautious. They had sent Deus away for ten long months, kicking the entity while it was down to boot. The enigma had reason to want revenge, but whoever was beneath the mask this time had a style that didn’t end with a simple victory. It came with a body bag.
Bad Moon Rising, however, wasn’t a bust by a long shot. Press still retained the title, and that pesky Power Trio was now at each other’s throats as much as they had ever been after The BombTrax. Jack Nomad had shown quite the bit of initiative on WICKED Live Episode #1 when he first, dealt a heavy hand to Cross, and then came after Calvin Harris. Things really heated up when it looked like Calvin might actually nut up and fight, but then security went and got involved, ruining what everyone was hoping would be a double homicide.
On the other side of the coin was the mission. On that front, neither man seemed to be able to agree. Youth wanted to play it safe, calm, calculated, and smart. Press, well, he was Press. Straight forward as a cannonball, and just about as dense. He didn’t seem to appreciate what the limelight they were receiving could mean for them if they were caught running around the city with an arsenal of holy weapons and a story that sometimes even sounded psychotic to them.
Angels, Demons, Monsters, Magic, and a Mission from God. No, nothing odd there.
Yet they had spent the majority of their lives after receiving this mission trying to keep it going, and trying to keep it safe. They were working with a 100% success rate at the current moment, so Youth didn’t really see any reason to go rocking the boat and changing tactics. Money wasn’t their main issue anymore, it was stardom, and as nice as it was to think they were making gains for their performances in the ring, it didn’t go well with this other line of work at all.
That was the thing about success. Sometimes it made you a little too comfortable, and when facing down the denizens of hell, being just a little comfortable could wind up with you being a whole lot dead.
Press eased the Pontiac out of traffic, and pulled into a parking spot just up the street from The Emporium. The two men exited the vehicle silently, something that they were both getting familiar with regardless of whether they liked it or not, and made their way towards the solid oak double doors that lead inside.
After a rap on one of the doors, and a few moments of waiting, the door slowly creaked open and half of a dark skinned face peeped through the opening. The eye brows raised, and the door pulled the rest of the way open to reveal Bobby standing there behind it. He ushered them in with an urgent hand gesture.
“Get in here, you fools!”
Press and Youth exchanged a glance before hurrying inside, Bobby shutting the door, and reattaching the four locks that accompanied it. He turned, and stared hard at the duo in exasperation.
“Why ye not come in through the rear. If we worried about bein’ bugged, you think maybe somebody be watching de place too.”
He shook his head, pushing between them and navigating the tavern floor towards a pair of doors that led to the kitchen. When he looked back to see that the two men hadn’t moved, he blew out a long breath of hot air, and threw his hands up in the air.
“What de fuck are you waiting for? An invitation? Sam need you, and need you now. Come on!”
With that, he shoved into the kitchen, and the big man chuckled a little despite himself, starting that way. Youth brought up the rear, stopping off to grab a beer out of the ice bucket behind the bar before following Press through the doors.
Once in the kitchen they kept closer pace with Bobby, the large Cajun moving through various cabinets and pantries before coming to a room the two men knew all too well. It was the same storage closet that Press had brought Youth to in 2005 when the young man had almost perished. The same shelves lined the walls with the same eerie contents, and both of them felt a shudder pass between them in remembrance.
The only thing that was out of place was that the table that usually sat in the middle of the floor had been moved to the far end of the room, and the rug it sat upon had been peeled back to reveal a hidden trap door. The door was already open, and a series of stone steps lead into the musky smelling darkness below. Bobby looked over his shoulder at the two men, and for the first time his stern demeanor had melted into one of concern.
He flashed his eyes towards the dark opening, and quietly spoke. “After you.”
The two men shared another glance, realizing that this probably would be one of many shared between them before this morning was through. Youth took point, and bounded down the steps, taking a flashlight offered by Bobby. Press stepped up next, stared at the flashlight and took in a whiff of the repugnant smell coming from below, and then followed his partner. Bobby brought up the rear, making certain that the other two made it down alright.
When Youth reached the bottom he was in what looked to be an old cellar, with a high ceiling to accommodate the narrow stairs, and about 550 cubic feet, almost as big as the kitchens and bar area up above them. Crates lined the walls, with old tables and chairs stacked up at the far end. There were enough of them that Samedi could have probably outfitted an entirely new establishment if he’d wanted.
Press bumbled in behind Youth, giving him a nudge so that he could get enough room to step down to the floor. He flashed his light around the room, and immediately noticed a large hole in the wall near the back. That seemed to be where the smell was coming from, and he crinkled his nose as it was much stronger now that they had made it down here.
Bobby appeared a moment later, stepping past the two who remained near the steps, and walking over to the man sized hole in the wall. He stuck his head through it, looked in either direction, and then turned around to face them. He crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded.
A phosphorous flash came from the corner directly in front of the stares, and both men jumped, head’s snapping to the direction of the flame.
The light grew bright as Samedi pulled in on his cigar a few times, and when sufficiently lit, he waved the match in his other hand before the flame eventually went out. He took a step forward at the same time he drew in a deep pull on the cigar, and the burning red tobacco on the end lit his face up like a ghoul. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, smoke pillowed out after it, and he regarded the two men who could now see him in the dark with a sour countenance.
“I’ve been robbed,” he said matter of factly, stepping past them to the center of the room, and indicating where Bobby stood with his cigar. “They came through the sewers, gained entry, and took what they wanted. No fuss, no muss, no problems. Hell, they didn’t even wake Bobby.”
The large Cajun took in a deep breath, his arms unfolding and hanging limply at his sides, and he hung his head in shame. Samedi clucked his tongue and shook his head before bringing the cigar back to his mouth.
Press stepped forward then, flashing his light around the room, and then past Bobby out into the sewer canal. “I would assume you’d have security measures to prevent yourself from being robbed, Sam. How did this happen?”
“What do you take me for, a fool?” He barked sharply, the question being rhetorical. “O’Course I got security measures. This place is protected by three levels of heaven and four levels of hell. Ain’t nobody crack dis code cept someone who knows how.”
“Well,” Press replied, opting to ignore the Priests anger. “Do you have any enemies?”
Sam’s eyes flashed to Youth, remembering the last time they had had a conversation at The Crossroads back in Purity. The young man suddenly found his gaze on the floor along with Bobby’s, wishing now that Sam hadn’t chosen to remind him.
“What kind of Goddamn question is dat?” He spat. “You know who I am, what I do, and where my people come from. O’course I got fuckin’ enemies. Dat much is obvious.”
Press sighed heavily, and leaned against the grimy wall, running his fingers through his hair. “Ok, then what do you plan on doing about it, Bones? You got us out here, what do you need?”
Samedi looked back over at Youth, who was still sulking, and shook his head. “Hey, you.” He called, and Youth looked up under his brow. “What do you think? You the brains of dis outfit, everybody knows this.”
Press started to protest the comment, but then fell silent, realizing that he was right. Youth finally stepped away from the steps, and sat his unopened beer on the floor before making his way over to the hole in the wall. He pulled the front collar of his shirt up over his mouth and nose like a mask, and he studied the marks around the makeshift entry/exit. After a few moments, he turned back to face the interior of the room and his audience.
“No creature did this. It’s a manmade job. If I did chemical analysis I would assume it’s much like the match you used to light your cigar, only with the added element of magnesium, to make it burn hotter. You can churn it up with a few household chemicals to make it gelatinous, almost like play-doh. It’s not going to get hot enough to burn through steel or anything, but old brick’s like these, yeah. Turns it into butter. The only sound was probably the pop of the air in here meeting the air out there. Dollars to donuts they used suction handles while the stuff burned, and then just eased that section of wall right into the muck out there. Damned if I’m going to go slugging around in it just to find out if I’m right though.”
When Youth stopped talking, they all stared at him with a bit of awe and newfound respect. He flashed a boyish grin before sheepishly twisting the point of his boot across the ground.
Press looked back to Sam after a moment, and leaned forwards. “Have you already consulted the other side about this? Isn’t there some sort of spirit, or spell, or something that could give you a clue as to who did this?”
“Der are several, Redeemer, but de spot is empty. Whoever came in knew how to cleanse the place of der presence, both physically and metaphysically. There is no trace. Picture this place as a center of power, my power. It’s my home, has been for many years now. That power is like a recorder. It take in everything dat’s ever been done here, good or evil, like a sponge soaking up mop water. I speak da word, and it’s like wringing that sponge out. Gives me a clue as to what’s been going on while I’m gone. Problem is, I wring the sponge out now, and nothing. It’s as if the magic done been erased, and whatever done is done.”
Press nodded in understanding, though his eyebrows remained drawn up in thought. “That answers a few questions at least. One, from what Youth’s saying, these guys are professionals, or at least they watched a lot of fucking McGyver as a kid. Two, they not only know about you and what you can do, monsters or not, they have a connection to the underworld. Three, if they can crack your code, then ain’t none of us safe.”
He ended his synopsis by falling back up against the wall, letting out a whistle of air when he hit. He shook his head as Sam puffed on his cigar, when suddenly, another question came to mind. Probably the most obvious of all.
“What did they take?”
The room went silent, even quieter than it had been before. Even the dripping refuge from the sewers seemed to quieten as Sam began to pace the floor. After a moment, he flicked the ashes off the end of his cigar, and looked up at Press with a tired expression.
“An artifact of some great importance.”
“That answer’s a little cryptic, Bones. Care to give us some details?”
Sam closed his eyes, chewing on the cigar now, obviously trying to decide how best to answer. Finally, his eyes opened, and he tossed the cigar to the floor before laying his boot over the burning end.
“It was a locator stone. Over 3000 years old, and Babylonian in origin. I picked it up on a trip to London at the dark carnival, the seller not really knowing what it was. I can only assume dat it was stolen from a private collector, which is not de sort of t’ing I’d be caught buying, but I had a hunch I couldn’t pass up. Once I got it home I began my research, and confirmed what I had suspected. It was attached to something. Locater stones were only as good as whatever it was meant to locate, and it would never just give up the location either. You have to know where to go, exactly, in order for it to work. Most of dem have multiple locations, giving you clues to where you can find de item it’s meant to take you to. A lot of times de only way to really find out where that is, is to know who first had the item commissioned.”
Press and Youth could feel knots forming in their stomachs, neither of them wanting to know the answer to their next question, but the big man asked it anyways.
“Did you find out who?”
Sam nodded slowly, licking his lips that had become suddenly dry. “Esther.”
Their jaws dropped, and eyes went wide with shock. Youth doubled over by the open hole, sliding down along the wall into a seated position with his head between his upraised knee’s trying to breathe. Press just continued to stare dumbly at the Cajun, who wasn’t sure how to respond to their reaction.
“Are you…..Are you talking about THE ‘Esther’?” Press croaked, gaze never shifting.
Samedi nodded, folding his hands out in front of him while Press tried to make sense of what he was hearing. He decided to fill the silence with a history lesson.
“Though de craftsmanship was Babylonian, it isn’t that surprising, as de Persian Empire had engulfed all peoples in its path. Babylon was de last to overthrow Judea and Israel, scattering de Jews to all corners of the known world, so when it was indoctrinated into de Empire, de Persian’s inherited their spoils. Esther, as you know, was one of many virgin Jews added to Xerxes harem after de banishment of his wife, Vashti, due to her refusal to appear at de Emperors banquet. Esther kept her Jewish heritage a secret, and it is said that her beauty was so great that Xerxes fell in love with her de first night she was presented to him. Der must be some truth to it, as she later became his queen.”
Sam paused to check on his guests, and noted that Youth was now listening to the story rather than hyperventilating, and Press seemed to be in deep contemplation. He took this as a good sign, and continued.
“De story takes a turn when Esther’s cousin, Mordecai, uncovers a plot set by the Emperors jester, Haman, a descendant of an Amalekite king who warred with Israel in the time of King Saul. The plan was to put all known Jews to death, as they were a parasitic people who burrowed themselves in der conquerors governments. Once Mordecai tells his cousin de news, what happens next is legendary, and sufficient reason enough for her own chapter in de Old Testament. She goes to de Emperor, a thing unheard of as she was only to come when summoned, and through feminine wiles and tactics, reveals herself to be a Jew while shedding light on Haman’s plot. De Emperor was outraged that any would dare to harm his queen, and destroyed Haman and his entire line.”
Sam paused once more, smirking a bit, thinking of the ladies in his life and their brashness and guile.
“After dat, Esther was able to do something that no one ever thought possible. She convinced Xerxes to give back the Promised Land to her people, so that they could better ‘serve’ him with de power of der God. De Emperor not only does this, but allows them to rebuild the Temple that was sacked by the Babylonians, and returned the Seat of Power back to Jerusalem.”
“The Ark of the Covenant.” Youth whispered, his eyes wide with either terror or excitement, Sam couldn’t tell which.
The old Priest nodded, and Press finally came off of his wall.
“What the fuck, Sam? This isn’t slaying a few monsters, or casting a little hocus pocus. Are you telling me that someone just stole a locater stone that could lead them to the Ark of the Covenant?”
Sam opened his mouth to answer, but then thought better of it. He shook his head, and began to pace the room again.
“Would you rather have someone who didn’t know de responsibilities of caring for such an item in possession of it? Once I figured out what it was, I put it in de safest place I could think of. A place that no one should have ever even suspected, and wouldn’t know to look for unless they somehow already knew about it. De four men in dis room are de only ones with dat kind of information, and I sure as fuck didn’t steal from myself.”
He let the accusation hang thick in the air, and Press could feel the blood begin to boil beneath his skin. Youth was already on his feet making a B-line for the big man, knowing that shit was about to head south. He arrived just in time to cut him off at the pass, but not before he got the chance to throw some fuel to the fire.
“Oh, so you think we had something to do with this? Are you out of your fucking mind? We might have had our problems in the past, Sam, but Goddamn! I thought we were past all that.”
Sam flashed his hand up, palm facing Press, and shook his head vehemently. He spared a glance at the big man, before allowing his gaze to rest on Bobby. The large Cajun sobbed, realizing what his master had meant from the start, and sunk to his knees.
“Dey must of compromised me somehow, boss.” He blubbered through snot and tears. “I don’t know how, but sometin’ got me.”
Press immediately eased, realizing what he was hearing, and he and Youth shared one of those now infamous glances before looking over to Sam.
Samedi stood as if on an island, hands and feet some breadth apart as he stared hard at his charge. Suddenly, in such a jerking motion that it caused The BombTrax to take a step back, the Voodoo Priest stalked right up to Bobby, and cupped his chin in his hand. He lifted Bobby’s gaze up to stare in his eyes, and after a moment, he let out a long sigh and patted the large Cajun on the head.
Bobby latched on to his midsection with both hands, blubbering and sobbing into Sam’s shirt as the Priest turned to look at the duo.
“He’s telling de truth. Whoever, or whatever did this to him, he had no knowledge of it. You two should go so dat Bobby and I can speak in private. I’ll contact you once I have what we need to know, that is, if you’re going to help me.”
Youth and Press stared hard at the Cajun, and after a minute Press shook his head, and waved the older man off. “You already know the answer to that, asshole. Just get word to us sooner than later.”
Sam allowed a grin for the first time since they had entered the space, though it was halfhearted at best. The BombTrax started up the steps to the storage room above, the sound of Bobby’s apologetic blubbering still echoing down below them. Youth made sure to grab his beer on the way.
PURE AMUSEMENT PARK Studio Production Room – Purity, LA 9/12/2016 – 1:35 PM
The scene opens up with Press sitting in his customary position on the desk in the PAW Production Room where most of his promo’s had been cut since The BombTrax started with the company. The PAW Banner for WICKED hangs proudly behind him, and the Championship sits to his right. It’s only on camera for a moment, as the viewer slowly tightens in from the chest up. The scars from the stitches are still there on his face, but it’s obvious that they are healing quickly.
“It’s been a long month, and we’ve seen a lot of transitions take place on PAW, with a new show in ADDICTION, which kicked things off with a new championship being revealed, and a new champion crowned to tote it. Then the very next night, WICKED Live went on the air, coming right into everyone’s living room thanks to The Circle Television Network. Due to the injuries I sustained at Bad Moon Rising I wasn’t able to compete, but I was there, ensuring that the reason for that was taken care of.”
Press smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Many people would probably question that decision. Why let Deus on the main roster? Why request that the person who set out to maim you be given a contract to compete? Answer’s simple. Because I’m not afraid.”
Press’ stare intensifies as he continues.
“That’s not a bold statement, nor one made from some place of pride. It’s not cause I think I’m untouchable, or because of my current win record here in PAW. It’s not even because of how long I’ve held this belt. No, it’s because anyone who has to hide behind a mask is the one who cowers in the shadows, and I don’t care whether it’s you Heaven, or someone else who’s decided to pick up the mantle, I’m going to give you Bad Moon Rising, because you owed me one, but next time, it’s going to cost you.”
Press rocked his head from side to side to work out the kinks, and then settled back once more.
“And then there’s Calvin Harris. God damn, you have got be the most confused fucking person I’ve ever met. Get it through your head, Calvin. Nobody gives a fuck what you say. Whether you withhold it like a kid holding his breath cause he doesn’t get his way, or whether you just come out and say it at the top of the hour, not one fucking person anywhere gives a shit. Hell, even that cum catcher you call a girlfriend doesn’t give a shit. She pats you on the head like a god damn puppy who’s got a little too excited and pissed itself, cause even she can’t take you fucking seriously.”
Press chuckles, shaking his head.
“Then, when you don’t get what you asked for, you two take to social media crying about injustice, and earned spots, and yadda, yadda, yadda. Son, you earned your spot, and then you fucking blew it. For Cripe’s sake, Calvin, I even let you set the stipulations. That whole electrified steel cage match was your fucking idea, citing, and I quote, ‘you don’t trust me to keep Youth out of our business’. Well, to me, it looks like you should have been worried about your own cronies going into business for themselves rather than what my tag team partner might be up to.”
Press rolls his eyes at the mere thought of Calvin Harris.
“So what happens when you let the pit bull of the chain? You have Jack Nomad, waging a path of destruction and violence across the show with his two crazy sidekicks. Normally, I’d applaud that type of thinking, but the reality is he and that dog have a lot in common. It isn’t some great conspiracy or masterful plot this guy cooked up, he’s just doing what comes naturally to him, and for the most part that’s being stupid.”
That deep chuckled makes another appearance.
“Look at the lengths that Cross Recoba went through just to try and get one over on me, Jack? He feigned injury till the point he felt best to strike, grabbed hold of two morons to act as his muscle, cost me and Youth a few matches, and handed down some colossal beat downs. And this is the guy you turn on with no questions asked? I mean, I won’t lie, I got a certain amount of entertainment value out of watching Helga and Darby lay the boots to Cross. I haven’t seen him take an ass whipping like that since we handed one out to him, but then you gave us all the reason for why you did it, and it reminded the PAW Universe that you’re about as useful as a midget on a basketball team.”
Press doesn’t just chuckle now, he guffaws, the mere thought of that moment chalked up to absolute absurdity.
“Because you don’t tolerate failure in your group." Brief chuckle, "What the fuck? That’s all those two bitches you got flanking you have been doing! Strutting around here like the biggest baddest thing since…..well…..since The BombTrax. Then they go out and take, not one, but two losses against the Mimes. So what if they are good at dolling out a beat down, if they can’t do anything where it fucking counts, and you know what that’s called you ignorant ass? A FUCKING FAILURE!”
Tears well in the champions eyes as he laughs, bringing his mitten like hand up to wipe them from his face. He gains control of himself though he still sports a grin, and shakes his head in disbelief.
“I could go on about you three idiots all day long, but I didn’t have to do a damn thing but win, and knowing how much that kills Calvin inside makes everything you three did to me fucking worth it. You guys just keep doing what you’re doing, and hopefully on ADDICTION you’ll do us all a solid, and kill each other.”
Press lets out another chuckle, but this time he doesn’t lose control, the grin softening to a fond smile.
“And then there’s Johnny Raike, the man who’s held the longest running #1 position since PAW decided to create a rankings. The man who’s headlined more Main Events than anyone, been in more Championship matches than anyone, and the guy that the PAW Universe rallies behind cause, well, he’s just that damn cool.”
Press takes a page out of his partner’s playbook for a change, and winks for the camera.
“You see folks, the world probably wants me to come out here and make it out like Johnny Raike is like every other person I’ve faced. They want me to crack some jokes, to poke a little fun at him like I did with Calvin and the boys, but that just isn’t going to happen. The reason for that, is because I actually respect Johnny Raike. Hell, me and Johnny, we got history dating as far back as anything I have with Deus. There was a time when we didn’t see eye to eye, and didn’t really much like each other, but I’d like to think since forming and becoming the top dogs of PAW, that maybe that’s changed a little bit.”
A nod follows the thought, while Press’ face becomes more serious.
“You see, Johnny never once made his desire to be the PAW Heavyweight Champion a secret, but he also didn’t have any problems with earning his shot at it. Just like all of us, he tossed his name in the hat of the PAW Heavyweight Championship Tournament, but unfortunately he ran into a road block named Stevie Harris. That didn’t deter the Hedonistic Hellcat, however, as he would go on to become the first ever champion here in PAW, and the first ever Titans of the Midway Champion. While I waged war against Stevie Harris for the Heavyweight Title, Johnny continued to grow, losing the Titans of the Midway Championship to Calvin, only to regain it at Heat Stroke to become the first ever Two time Titans Champion. His win loss record speaks for itself, and there’s no denying his ability or prowess in the ring. Johnny will go to any lengths, any distance, to ensure that he gets that belt. He’ll even go till there’s absolutely nothing left to give, as he demonstrated against Nova Wonder at Bad Moon Rising when the official called the match due to him being unconscious.”
Press nods, no sarcasm or jest in his expression.
“Johnny Raike is the real fucking deal, and as the defending champion, I have to treat him as such. Despite what some of these jackasses on Twitter might spout out of their dung spreaders, Johnny Raike, quite possibly more than any other PAW superstar, deserves this opportunity.”
Press’ pointer finger flashes up, and a twinkle enters the champions eyes before he continues.
“BUT! No matter how much Johnny may deserve this, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out a few other facts for the record. Don’t worry, they’re mostly based in reality, and anyone who follows our product can clearly see they aren’t unfair observations.”
The finger remains upturned.
“One, Johnny Raike, by his own admission, can’t hold onto the big one. Yeah, he might win a championship, but then he turns right around and loses it. Matter of fact, Johnny Raike has never once successfully defended a championship here in PAW.”
A second finger joins the first.
“Two, Johnny Raike, as I mentioned before, had the same opportunity afforded to him during the Championship Tournament, and yet he fell victim to Stevie Harris. Hey, I know from firsthand experience how tough that man was to beat, but it doesn’t change the fact that I did. Twice. Plus a successful title defense against him. Fortunately Stevie Harris got a fitting end when he was incarcerated thanks to a phone call placed by one Johnny Raike. The unfortunate consequence of that is that you never got the chance to face him again, and so we’ll never really know if you would have risen to the occasion like you alluded to several times in your promos during that period. Hell, I guess you could say you put him down for good with a stunt like that, while others…..well, they might say you got him out of the way cause you knew you couldn’t do it in the ring.”
Press shrugs.
“Again, just observation.”
His tone has grown darker as a third finger joins the others pointed skyward.
“Three, Calvin Harris. At WICKED#9 Harris took the Titans title away from you, and though you got it back at Heat Stroke, he got the real prize in a #1 Contender’s spot to come after me. It’s true, you hold one pinfall over Calvin, but that was largely in part to help from Alex Cross. How do you explain that out of the five times that you faced one another, he came out with three wins to your two, and quite frankly, the only wins that mattered?”
Press shook his head apologetically while at the same time letting his hand fall down to his side.
“I like you, Johnny. Hell, most everyone out there likes you. If we’re being honest, going into a match like this with both of us having followings, you’re probably the more popular wrestler. You’ve sent out multiple heartfelt messages on behalf of the LGBT community, even apologized to the Mimes when you learned that you offended them. You’re an all-around decent human being, with a lot of charisma, a lot of heart, and a lot going for you.”
Press pauses, his dark orbs penetrating the camera lens.
“But, Johnny. You don’t have this.”
The Championship is thrust into the viewer, the eyes still burning hot.
“And the evidence that’s been presented tells me that that WILL NOT change when we go Live from Tuskagee, Alabama. So bring all the freaks, fuckboi’s, and pretties you want. Let them cheer, let them hang from the rafters, you go on and take the role of face in this match. Come back at me with words of grandeur in that Walt Whitman style of yours, weaving a tapestry of words and images that can only leave you the clear victor. But make no mistake, no matter how much I like you, and no matter how loud they get, I am going to drop you on your fucking skull and walk out of this match as the Champion, cause, Johnny, I don’t have the same problems as you.”
The camera widens out as the champion slowly brings the belt out of frame, and he stands up, getting ready to leave. He pauses just a moment before disappearing off camera, a sudden thought causing him to smirk.
“And to think, Johnny, the first time we met…..I didn’t even know who you were.”
He chuckles with dark humor as he clears the viewer, and the scene fades to black.
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Post by johnnyraike on Sept 14, 2016 23:23:53 GMT
(Trying something a little different)
Mexico City. Some days ago.
I couldn't tell you the last time I just went to a wrestling show. I was never really a wrestling fan before I started in the back yards(my mother certainly wouldn't have allowed wrestling in the house and I was busy fighting her on so many other fronts); even then it was mostly to find shit I thought I could steal. The point is siting in the back of a dingy five-hundred foot seat venue in Mexico City, incognito in jeans and a hoodie, not my exact comfort zone. There's a few other workers sitting around, no one I know. Not surprising, I haven't worked south of the border too much. But the change in scenery has been good for me, and I mean, how do you go to Mexico and not watch at least a bit of lucha, yeah?
The show was entertaining, if not terribly inspiring. I can't do a lot of the flips, but I could chain wrestle circles around half of them. But the costumes...now this was some wrestling. Best thing of the night was definitely the semi-main event, three-on-one handicap match. Big, powerful girl versus three... less powerful girls. At a guess, the trio were hardly out of training, still trying to tell a wrist lock from a wrist watch, and I probably wouldn't have paid it any attention had the bigger girl, La Pera Grande, not come strutting out to ring to the Aqua classic "Barbie Girl." La Pera Grande is about 6'4, I'd eyeball at a least 240. A Barbie Doll she clearly is not, but the fuck if she cares. Bowie knows I find that inspiring, and the bright, colorful outfit just seals the deal. It's not even a close match as this powerful girl, and it is girl to be certain, I'm not sure she could drink in the States, just splashes this tiny blond into the corner, double clotheslines the other two, spends about five minutes making sure and pinning all three woman in a frog splash. She's perfect.
I have to talk to her, so I worm my way backstage, offer to buy the girl a drink. I think that I spoke her language in a foreign country has a lot to do with her saying yes, but I do feel a sense of validation when she tells me she knows my name. She's a Pure Amusement fan. Which is super helpful to my plan, this whole reputation proceeding me thing. All I need now is for this power house with the southern accent wouldn't like some work in America. Or at least Louisiana and the surrounding Deep South.
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Camera. Present Day
Open straight to a smiling shot of Johnny Raike, wearing a neon blue mesh tank top, clearly as a line of defense against the Purity, Louisiana humidity. Raike has in his eyebrow piercing, a gleaming red stud, to make his eyes, the cause of such a condition smoking over an ash tray on the Kissing Booth balcony.
"Yo dudes! Kept you guys hanging for a while on this, and I'm sorry about that. But I've been thinking, reflecting, really considering why it is that I do this. I see a lot of people I respect telling me that being the ordained top guy, running with the belt, that's not what our legacies should be about. I wish I could say I fully agreed. 'Cause, see, I get what those people, the Whiskey's and Hardy's and - to a now somewhat lesser extent,- the Treats's, are trying to say. That having the shiny piece of gold doesn't make you, what you've done makes you. And I agree. But...that's just got me right back at wanting the belt. At wanting to see it in lights, to have a nice little name plate for the belt, Johnny Raike - Pure Amusement Champion. I think... I think what I might be to away from this is not living and dying on the results of the quest for gold. Not like I wouldn't be in some fine company. Stevie Harris, Calvin Harris, CJ O'Donnell, all people who couldn't topple the champion, and I'm hardly to be damned if I join that company. Not that I'm planning to fail."
Johnny takes a pull from the frankly over large blunt smoldering near by, near disappearing behind the smoke for a moment.
"See, I had to figure out just what it was that I could bring to the table that the other challengers haven't brought, how will Press versus Raike differ from Press v take your pick? And it took me a while to see just what it was. At a glance, I'm a lot less angry, but that's not quite the answer to what am I doing differently. But it does descend from there. I don't have a blood grudge against Press. I've worked with him, in ring and out, I respect him as champion and the insane amount of effort that has gone into keeping him champion is inspiring. I don't want Press destroyed, left a broken shell of a man as I stand victorious over him, holding the one thing he loved in this business. I just want to pin him. Maybe make him tap. Be named the champion. That's it. Granted, getting Recoba's blood money is also a nice little motivator. But I'm afraid I'm going for the letter of the offer, not the spirit."
An apologetic shrug, possibly sincere, from The American Wet Dream.
"I am glad the match got officially made a no DQ. Not that I'll be looking to take advantage of the stipulation, I've got a chance to leave the blood letting behind for a little while. I'll be back, but let me get some color to these cheeks. I'll start by hiking naked. No, much for the discussed reason, I just don't want to make it too easy for any of my various... antagonists to take away from me this match I earned. Make no mistake, if I beat Press, and I'm self confident enough to say if, I want it to have been because I could out fight and out wrestle the champion. I want to showcase my sport, and I want to be the best of this group of talent. I'll have to be, we already know the meat grinder the champ will be thrown into after this match. But, win or lose -fuck draws- I intend for this to add to that legacy I'm so damn worried about this. And however this ends, I'll shake Press's hand."
Raike takes a quick puff and exhales through the nose, rolling his head and shoulders, not quite playing with his hair.
"Press, I'll go ahead and address this part to you specifically. Thank you. For being a better person then I gave you credit for when first we met, for being willing to talk to the odd ball in a sea of refugees from that last place we saw Deus... For having my back when we had to do something about Stevie Harris, Thank you. For always being willing to show the respect that is so lacking in this world. I guess that's the other thing that's different, from me and the others. I actually do respect you. And I'm looking forward to this. And I intend to do absolutely everything in my power to leave as your champion Friday night. And that means getting this done in a way I can be proud of. See you soon buddy. I'll be the sexy little piece in the skirt."
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Mexico City. The Same Some Days ago
"The Big Dog, eh? Put a lot of thought into that one?"
Johnny Raike and La Pera Grande sit at a cantina, the only two at the bar itself, minus there largely silent drink provider.
"That was the promoters idea. He found it real funny, and I don't have enough Spanish to have any better ideas. I can basically find a hotel and a bath room." Sitting down, the woman known as La Pera Grande isn't much taller than Johnny Raike, though she does seem to be more of a drinker, judging by the difference in empty glasses in front of them both. "But just call me Lorie-Beth. Or Cake."
Johnny blinks, looking a touch confused. "I mean I will, but how?"
Lorie-Beth finishes her beer and lets out a 'cervesa, por favor' in heavily accented spanish before answering. "Training nick name. My initials are LB, so I got called pound, that got played off into pound cake. When we got lazy with that it was just Cake."
Johnny considers this. No way Cake was originally meant as a term of endearment. But then, sissyboy hadn't been meant politely either, and now here he is, the Sissyboy Savior. Perhaps this girl also had a talent for making chicken salad out of chicken shit. "Alright. Well, Cake, I've got a proposition for you."
"You aren't my type," comes Cake's reply, a little defensive. "I like my men with some meat on their bones."
Johnny laughs, amused at the misunderstanding. "I'm currently off the market, hon, plus I prefer flatter girls who are super ethereal and really feminine."
LB levels a look at Johnny, not sure if she's been insulted. "Flat and feminine, eh? Wouldn't that be easier found in gay men?"
Raike nods. "Usually. Twinks are fun. But I didn't mean any kind of indecent proposal, I'm looking.... to give back to wrestling. I'm looking to be a better fighter. And I'm looking for some muscle to watch my back, just in case I finally piss off one person too many. So I figured, perhaps I go looking for a tag team partner. Maybe one being wasted on beating up undersized rookies. Unless you like it here, and don't want to come to Pure Amusement."
Cake puts down her beer glass, recently drained, with a loud thunk. "Of course I want to come to Pure Amusement. Not sure I'm looking to be someone's little pet project. Put you want a partner, and I'll come give you a try, string bean. You could even say I got your back, Raike!" LB is clearly proud of her pun, while Raike is trying not to roll his eyes. Johnny instead raises his glass to Cake, and the two drink to seal the deal.
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Camera On. The Present.
"Now, I know there are a few of you out there who don't think I deserve this. Tough shit. Choke on your rage Calvin Harris and others not to be named, I got here. And I did it through hard work, perseverance, and an ass that just won't quit. Live with it. I just might be your next champion. Deal with it. I'm a dangerous man who is not interested in being fucked with. Understand that. If anyone gets involved in this match, I will take it just a tad personal. I'll also stop and beat the fuck out of you without remorse until you are done being an ass, and I feel pretty confident that Press gives enough of a shit about me to allow that to happen, if not help out. So, please, whatever you feel about me, keep it to your damn self. Unless you have something new to say, something of substance, just zip it up. We'd all be a lot happier. Bye-bye now!"
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