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Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 2:15:26 GMT
RP Max: 2
RP #1 Deadline: Thursday, January 14, 2016 at 11:59 p.m. EST
RP #2 Deadline: Wednesday, January 20, 2016 at 11:59 p.m. EST
Start and Segment Deadline: Thursday, January 21, 2016 at 7:59 a.m. EST
If you do not meet roleplay deadline #1 with your first roleplay, you can only post one. Reply, to compete on WICKED #2.
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Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 2:15:56 GMT
Press sat at the breakfast nook in their new apartment, nursing a cup of coffee and flipping through the pages of the New Orleans Advocate, a local paper. Youth had stepped out to get a lay of the neighborhood, which was more upscale than either of the men was used to. The fact that he was able to even say out loud that they had a breakfast nook was more than he could have ever hoped for.
They had followed the directions on the business card that Samedi had given them, which ultimately lead them to The Strand, an upscale apartment complex in down town New Orleans. Here you could choose from available apartments, their layouts named after famous celebrities, like the James Dean or the Marilyn Monroe. They ran anywhere between twenty-five-hundred and six thousand, and were way out of the men’s price range. The card, however, along with Samedi’s name, had landed them a Marlon Brando for the price of fifteen hundred a month.
The Brando was a spacious three bedroom apartment nestled in the corner of the 23rd floor. Two of the bedrooms had their own personal bathrooms with walk in closets, a large living area, medium sized dining room, and a kitchen with a breakfast nook. There was also a utility closet that came with a double decker combo washer and dryer unit. They also had a balcony that allowed them to look out over the city and get a pretty good view of the bay in all its splendor. Not only did they have a very comfortable place to lay their heads, but the complex had a pool, a gym, a few shops, and even an indoor parking garage for the Pontiac. It was more than either of the men could have hoped for, and something neither could have expected.
After their victory at the first WICKED DVD taping, they had taken home six thousand dollars, which they used to buy furniture and supply their new apartment. It was the first time in nearly a decade, with the exception of a few high profile matches in the indy’s, that they had a place that wasn’t just the bare minimum.
The third bedroom was an office/armory, where they stowed their other gear, including the large chest that contained all of their supernatural components. They had found a desk and office chair at goodwill, and a few bookshelves at the Salvation Army, making the room feel more official somehow by everything being put in a proper place. The weapons and ammunition were set up in the closet, all cleaned and separate for easy access and performance. Again, a first, considering they never really had a set up that allowed for them to easily organize their gear out in the open.
It’s a funny thing, comfort. When you don’t have it, you don’t know to miss it, but the moment you do, you can’t go back to living without it. Rather, you don’t want to. You’ll do just about anything to keep it. It becomes your greatest motivator. No one want’s to go backwards, only forwards, into the waiting arms of even more comfort. With his coffee, his paper, and his breakfast nook, Press was more determined than ever to make sure that they kept themselves firmly planted on their cushioned surroundings.
Keys could be heard fumbling at the door, and second later Youth came strolling into the kitchen with a hot pretzel in his hand. He grabbed a beer from the fridge on his way over to the table, and then plopped down at the seat opposite his partner.
He took a bite from the pretzel, and then cast Press a sidelong glance. “So, have you seen the Pure Website?”
There was a smugness to the way he asked the question, and Press regarded the young man with a wary eye. “Nooooo. Was I supposed to?”
Youth shrugged non-chalantly, and took another bite of his pretzel, using it to shield the smirk that he couldn’t hold back.
Press, starting to get slightly irritated, pulled out his phone, and clicked open his bookmarks. After a second the screen came to life with the Pure Amusement website, and there, on the opening banner, was his mug. He grunted in surprise, and then had to do a double take, when he scrolled down to a promo for the DVD that had Youth on the front. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, and looked across at his partner with a nod of approval.
He raised his coffee cup in cheers. “It appears we made an impression.” He remarked.
“Indeed, it does.” Youth replied, taking a great deal of satisfaction in what he felt was a justified victory. “Keep scrolling, it gets better.”
The distinct note of confidence in his partner’s voice sent a thrill of excitement up his spine, and he hastily scrolled down to where the next card was posted. This would be the inaugural show at the amusement park, and was a big deal for the company. He searched the opener, but didn’t see their names. The next match. The next match. There was a slight bit of panic building at the base of his skull as he continued to scroll down until he finally made it to the main event.
His eyes went wide with genuine surprise, and then looked up at Youth excitedly. “We got main event!?!”
“We got main event!” Youth reiterated, a beaming grin from ear to ear. “Looks like our stock just went up, and then some. You were right, dude. Just think about where we were in Vegas a few weeks ago, and where we’re at now that we’re back in the dirty south! I’ve been keeping in touch with Samedi, and he says things are just about complete at the Amusement Park. They had their soft opening this weekend, and will be ready to roll out the next.”
“Xayachak and Munin are moving fast. I wonder how long they’ve been planning this?”
“I bet you anything that’s the reason Munin took on the gig with EW. What better place to learn about an amusement park than a carnival. There are so many more problems that come with having to move around all the time, so if you can handle that type of atmosphere, an amusement park will be a piece of cake. Plus there’s so many attractions that a carnival just couldn’t provide. Like Knuxy’s Castle and Unreal’s Fun House. Man, this is going to be awesome! I even here that Wheeler kid talked Sam into giving him space for a skate park. I can finally take up some of my old hobbies again!”
Press leaned back in his seat, and smirked. “Maybe we ought to think about getting something going over there. Something to help generate cash flow for when we aren’t at a show. Something to consider.”
“Hell, yeah!” Youth replied. “Do you have anything in mind? I mean, everyone else’s ideas kind of fit their personalities, but if we let people in on our extracurricular, we’d have a house of horrors.”
Press raised an eyebrow, and brought his hand up to stroke his chin. “You know, kid, that’s not a half bad idea. What if we did a house of horrors, but instead of just going through and getting the crap scared out of you, you had to survive the experience. Do it with laser tag, or something. Maybe let the people who make it all the way through get a prize of some sort. I bet we could work it out with the other outfits for discounts at their shops. That way there’s no real cost to any of us.”
“Oh, man! I bet that would be epic! With all the people out there that are into Zombie Apocalypse stuff, it would be like a wet dream! We could even rig the place up with cameras, film the entire experience, and then sell them a copy at our souvenir shop.”
“That’s a real good idea, kid. We’ll need to talk to Munin about the details, but I bet it would fly. You get started on some designs, and mapping out how much everything’s going to cost. I need to try and get my mind back on business in the ring.”
“Alright, but don’t let it fake you out. I know it’s been awhile since we’ve been a part of a main event, but it’s obvious the company has faith in us to produce. Besides, it’s just Cross Recoba. I mean, it’s kind of hard to take a guy seriously when his name sounds like a sexually transmitted disease.”
Press chuckled and shook his head, while Youth just shrugged, and made his way towards the office. Youth had always been a comedian, and knew the right things to say and when to say them to make Press guffaw. Yet, he wasn’t the one who had to get the job done in this match. Sure, he was a part of it, being assigned as the guest referee, but Press was the one who would have to deal with Cross, and he didn’t take the man lightly. He hadn’t seen much of him back in EW, because quite frankly, EW wasn’t around for that long. But he knew enough about him to know that he was good. Damn good. And that was the mountain that he alone would have to climb.
*****A FEW DAYS LATER*****
The scene opens up outside of a an old ramshackle two story building in down town New Orleans with a wooden sign out front, hanging from a peg hook that reads, ‘Le Boxeur Gym’. It’s right on the corner of the street, with a billboard that runs the length of the building advertising for a KFC. Graffiti has been spray painted on the side walls at different vantage points, and someone has taken the opportunity to do a cartoon spoof of the God knocking the devil unconscious with a pair of boxing gloves. The camera moves forward, up onto the curb, up the steps, and finally through the single heavy reinforced door that marks the gym’s entrance. Inside there are multiple banners hanging from the walls for different frights, and several posters promoting bouts long past decided.
Big Frank, the owner and coach of the establishment, looks up from his desk just off to the right. He’s of medium build, in his mid-forties, but you can tell even beneath the grey sweats adorning him that he’s still in pretty good shape. He makes a nodding motion towards the camera, and the scene pans around the various workout stations and boxing rings over to the far corner where The BombTrax can be seen warming up.
As the camera moves in closer, Press notices their approach, and takes a seat on a stool by the ring, while Youth continues his work on the speed bag in the background.
“Well, it looks like you guys found us.” Press remarked, nodding towards the camera. “I guess you want a few words heading into WICKED’s second show?”
The camera motions up and down in the affirmative, and Press smirks in response.
“Alright. I see you forgot your reporter, but you know, that’s just as well. No need for pesky questions and idiotic assumptions. We’ll just wing it, if that’s alright?”
Press rolls his shoulders to work out the kinks, and then crosses his arms over his chest. Youth, in the background, has stopped working over the speed bag, and is now shadow boxing against an imaginary opponent.
“So what to talk about, eh? The first show went off without a hitch, lots of twists and turns, lots of new developments. I didn’t figure when we came down to Louisiana that Munin would attach herself to anything that wasn’t going to be successful, and that has proven to be correct. People are already lining up to get tickets to the amusement park, and the Xayachak Arena is already sold out for their next show. We’ve got new signee’s on the docket, some of them even first timers, imagine that. At the end of the day all the right people showed up at all the right times to make for one hell of a show. A show, that left everyone craving for more. Including us.”
Press allowed a slight smile to escape, before launching forward.
“You see, we didn’t know what to expect when we came here, but we knew it was going to be special. We knew it was going to be something fresh, something new. It’s created a buzz that has attracted the attention of not just the local media, but the world. Through the power of the internet they have launched a campaign against the wrestling industry that demands more than just good guy versus bad guy, but actually delves into the concept that everything is open debate when you finally get to the core of the business.”
“The very nature of what we do makes us all a little egotistical. Makes us all a little over the top. Hell, we’re a regular old freak show around these parts. There are still a few familiar faces, a few nods to the old established way of doing things, but at the end of the day you can pass your carcass through a Pure event and be reborn, cleansed of all the silly things about this business that we know are nonsense.”
“But even with this new knowledge there are some questions that still remain from that old world. I’ve already heard the rumblings. Who’s with the Lady? Who’s with Xayachak? Who’s really pulling the strings?”
Press just grins, and shakes his head at the futility of it all.
“Let me make this clear. You are. That’s right, you, sitting at home, eating your Cheetos and hitting your bong. The fans always pull the strings. So color me surprised, when I saw Cross Recoba come out for all to see, and not only put one of you fans in his famed submission, but also knocked over the guy’s kid.”
Press’ grin fades, and the expression left over is a mask of disdain.
“You see, Cross, I’ve seen the money gimmick before. Hell, I’ve seen it done better than what you’re peddling. You put all your faith in the idea that those greenbacks somehow make you invincible. Untouchable. You’re gonna find out real soon just how untouchable you are, but even then, I doubt you’ll learn anything from it. Just like I figure you’re going to tell anyone that will listen that this main event we have coming up is one big job designed to punish you for your actions. That Lady Munin has it in for you after that little stunt, and that she’s just trying to destroy your good name.”
“Well, kid…” Press purses his lips, and leans towards the camera. “We don’t know who booked this thing, or their motivations, but if it’s punishment that their after, I guaran-fucking-tee you that they won’t be disappointed.”
Press stood up from his stool, and walked past the camera, leaving only the image of Youth comically shadow boxing in the background. He stops for a second, and looks over, as if noticing the camera for the first time. He sheepishly steps over, and plops down on the stool in front of the lens.
“Listen, I’m the special referee in this match. That means what I say goes. That means that I’m the head honcho. I’m the chief. I’m the sheriff. I’m the numero uno! Wait…” Youth pauses, a puzzled expression spreading across his face. “Does the Sheriff come before the Chief, or is it Chief before Sheriff? Aw, who the fuck cares! You get it. I’m the guy!”
Youth nods, resolution twinkling in his eyes. “So, Cross Recoba, you need to think long and hard about the next words that leave your mouth. You don’t want to cut down the one who’s in charge of ensuring justice and order across the Pure galaxy. God, I’m almost giddy. Maybe I should pack in the wrestling gig for a spot on the card as lead referee. I mean, this is where it’s at. PLUS, I GET TO DRESS UP LIKE A FUCKING ZEBRA!! YES!!!”
With that Youth’s exuberant jubilation can no longer be contained, and he dashes past the camera to catch up with his partner. The cameraman sets the camera down on the stool the two men had used for their promo, and with it still running, he leans against the boxing ring, and looks into the lens himself.
“You see what I mean? These people are looney tunes! How the fuck am I supposed to feel safe about my job when one looks like he might eat me for breakfast, and the other rambles like an insane person? I don’t know if I can do this anymore. If you want these guys on camera, then you deal with them.”
With that, the cameraman stood up, and walked away, leaving the camera behind until it finally cut to static. She watched the monitor for a few moments more to ensure there was nothing else near the end of the tape, and then she spun around in her chair to face her production team. They were a good crew, been through a lot, and she knew that she could only trust about half of them with the tasks that she would give them, but that would have to do. A new player had entered her arena, and I’ll be damned if she was going to allow Brandon McKay to just sweep away all of her hard work.
She was still the lead correspondent for PAW, after all. The only backstage interviewer that the company needed, and despite being threatened by Xayachak's new tramp, she was determined to be the one that brought the PAW universe their news. She was going to nip this Brandon McKay shit in the bud, and she was going to use these two asshats to do it!
Brandy Irving stood from her desk, and pointed towards the door. “Now, get out there and find me more.”
To Be Continued…..
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Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 2:16:41 GMT
N.B - This was going to be a fully-fledged promo. Posted as it is now to keep in the thread, however the one promo I post after this will be the one counted.
Al set down his cup of coffee on his desk and picked up the slice of toast as he idly thumbed his way through the morning’s papers. He shook his head at the front-page headline –a presidential candidate advocating severe reforms around immigration was a topic that struck close to his heart. If the same rules were to have been applied when his family sought to leave their native Sicily for the United States his life could have been very, very different.
It seemed that what was now labelled ‘progress’ was more a devolution of ideas than anything evolving. He mused that perhaps his age was catching up on him, his ideas and values outdated. The latest poll showed this politician to represent 35% of the party voters; a figure that rose to 38% when the polled members received anonymity. He’d always been unaffiliated politically – he would look only as far as four or eight years into the future when casting his vote. The next time the ballot paper was in his hand he’d look only as far as two, he was under no illusion to his own mortality.
That, in itself, might even be too far for he found this candidate, if selected by his party, to be wholly unelectable in Costello’s eyes. If he is openly campaigning for his party’s vote on a platform of xenophobia and fear against enemies from overseas it was likely that they’d look closer to home when it came to putting their campaign manifesto together.
Would that cause problems? It was too early to say but Costello was already down to his last paper of five. They had all taken the same view that this was the most right-wing platform bought to the table by a credible contender in recent memory. The subtext that Al drew from that was that a victory for the candidate would mean a closer look at threats operating within their own country. That could work in his favor – maybe they’d look past his own enterprise to those that had to be more aggressive to achieve their goals. After all, The Sands was a fixture within Las Vegas and the days of overly officious regulations and the Cal-Neva Lodge fiasco were far behind them.
Still, the nagging doubt that this man could cause issues persisted. If they lost the election but won control of the Senate then it’d put Costello between a rock and a hard place. The two-party system had often come under fire for offering little choice to the voter but the average Joe only worried about how much money would come out of his pocket under one party compared to another,
Costello had to consider not only his own livelihood but all under his banner.
An outside chance was that he wasn’t the only person in his line of work who felt the same feelings when reading the headlines.
They might become more inclined to take action, be of a less cautious nature and be more exposed to the threat that this could bring. He’d need to make calls to establish sentiment, the next time they’d all be in a room together wouldn’t be until March and Costello, even for a man of seemingly unlimited patience, wasn’t prepared to wait that long.
He set down the paper and the now empty plate and finished his coffee; his morning ritual was complete. He pressed a button on the intercom in front of him.
“Can you ask Cross to come down now? I’m ready to see him.”
Jake looked at his watch - it read ten-thirty A.M. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, it had become a habit since Culinaire had started picking up traction. That had been three months ago and every day brought longer hours and a bigger realization that the company couldn’t keep on being bootstrapped. What he needed was investors, and fast.
Jake Golding had left education straight after high school, his generation were the ones to face an uncertain economic future.
Going to college couldn’t guarantee you a job in Starbucks these days and didn’t he know it from looking at his peers when he went back to Ohio.
He’d taught himself more in what he wanted to learn than he would have at three years in any college in the country, or so he told himself. He’d also noticed the switch in the career guidance at High School. Before it was ‘A college education is paramount to succeed’, his elder brother had been told this all the way until he left in 2007. By the time Jake had graduated in 2012 that message had been severely low-balled. Jake knew why, you couldn’t avoid it and every student was scrambling to get into any college that would take them just to try and compete. He had a different idea for his career, he was going to make his own way.
He’d taught himself how to code, starting with BASIC and HTML before moving onto more sophisticated languages. He saw the rate of speed that languages would be formed, developed, and improved upon with each iteration. Free e-learning courses were springing up with more frequency and what they didn’t teach him he could search for and teach himself. All he needed was an idea.
His parents weren’t sold on the idea at first; it was a hard battle to explain why he didn’t bother to even apply for colleges, his instinct telling him that he’d lose ground if he sat in a lecture learning the theory when he could be putting it into practice and learning from his own mistakes. He took any job he could relating to programming, each job teaching him a little more whilst he devoured code and tried to think of where he could make his mark.
Finally he came up with the idea for Culinaire and realised that Ohio would kill off his idea, and his dream, before he begun.
He’d taken his college fund, his inheritance from his grandparents, and the least amount of his parents’ savings he could and headed to Silicon Valley...technically Mountain View, it was all he could afford, and a year in that was becoming an increasing uncertainty with each passing week.
Jake had to get out of his own head for a minute. He grabbed a soda from the fridge and parked himself back at his desk. There would be plenty of time to reflect but his inbox was filling up with the day ahead with every sip
Costello heard the door to his office open and he looked up to see Cross Recoba walk in. He had been moulding the young adult for three years and was pleased to see him continuously exceed expectations. He knew Recoba was due a slip-up, having not made one since the very first months of his tenure at The Sands. Cross had grown from that mistake but Al knew that even great mean were still mortal like the rest of us and that a mistake wouldn’t damage his reputation. What could damage the reputation was how he reacted to it and what he took from it.
The mistake was bound to happen, it HAD to happen, Recoba was spreading himself far too thinly and Costello had rebuked his charge about this multiple times but so far it was working for Cross. That was the thing – circumstances work…until they don’t. Here he was looking at his VP of Operations and Communications and they both knew the title was almost tongue-in-cheek, Recoba had chuckled to himself when he was told of it, only too aware of the veiled subtext that lay beneath the title and knew that it was a position that he held as much to answer questions around his salary as it was that he was the best they could have hired.
He’d started working in the pits, and he had a great way with the customers, his card skills were average but his way of working with the clientele made for a popular croupier. From there he was put in charge of the pit, after other skills were of course ratified. His stock had risen almost immediately, clearly he was his father’s son. The problem came from that, how do you bill someone as earning six figures at that age? The answer was to appoint him to a figurehead position, one that he could excel at and would make sense to the board, but would explain away his take-home as plausible, his payments from work outside of the role to be seen as bonuses? Now questions were being raised due to his extra commitments that fell even outside the periphery of The Sands and Costello’s interests.
Cross poured himself a bourbon from the drinks cabinet and looked to Al who waved away anything stronger than coffee at this point in his day. He sat down opposite Al and glanced at the New York Times, Costello removed the paper from the table and Recoba could see from the look his boss gave him that this wasn’t going to be the usual light-hearted discussion they would normally have.
“Tell me about these wrestling companies, Cross, what is it that they give you that you’re not getting within the operation.”
Costello’s words were measured and thought out, he’d milled them around his brain the previous night, keen to ensure that while the gravity of his words would not be mistaken that the concern was aimed towards Cross’ own happiness and not the concern for his own business and interests.
“What do you want to know, Al?” Recoba was keen to get this conversation out the way. He’d known it was going to be a matter of when, not if, this conversation would take place.
“Not more than six weeks ago you came to me with the idea of getting back into the ring and I couldn’t argue too much. The location was close, the benefits you gave me were clear. I’m hoping that your moves in the last month still support something that’s beneficial to us all here and not to your own personal aims. What do Pure Amusement Wrestling and Hate City Syndicate give us?”
“Let’s take these companies one at a time.” Cross lit a cigarette as he spoke.
“Pure Amusement Wrestling is, in effect, a phoenix operation from Evolution Wrestling. It’s one that I had little trouble with signing their contract. Lady Munin and Sam both worked at the carnival, they got money together…they bought out my contract with Candy and Huckabee. Even so they saw fit to sign me to a much more lucrative contract than the twenty-five hundred dollars that I was being paid for each appearance I made….”
“But we both know that money isn’t what motivates you to get into the ring, you’ve got no overheads to pay out in terms of rent or mortgage, you live here as part of your contract with me…”
Costello and Recoba both knew that the other worked on facts, empirical evidence.
“True, but the same investment opportunity that was apparent in Evolution Wrestling still exists within the new company. They are based at an amusement park geared towards adults, their customer base is the same as we’d target here…the difference is that we’ve
been doing this for far longer than them. What we can offer them if an investment opportunity arises is very clear to them.”
“Are they looking for investment?”
“Not for now, their plans seem to be in establishing the wrestling promotion and the amusement park. Until they prove the viability of both there isn’t an opportunity we’d want to be involved with even if it were on the table. They’ve signed some big names and now it’s going to be crunch time for them as they’ll want to recoup their outlay sooner rather than later. The secondary appeal is still there though, as long as I’m there we’re raising the profile of this place. We’re appealing to an audience that might not think to come to Vegas, let’s not kid ourselves – the demographic of our customers is generally those over the age of 30, married, who remember Vegas being a destination…”
Cross lay his cigarette to rest in the ashtray as he continued.
“…the younger generation don’t see it like that. They’re harder to target, want to be more involved – this is all from research we carried out around Millennials, so the figures can be accessed by you at any point you want to ratify this.”
Costello nodded along as Recoba explained, he took the gap in conversation to get his follow-up question in.
“And what of the other place?”
“The other place is less of an opportunity for us in investment but does carry the possibility of benefitting us in a different way. It’s already a place that has heavy backing but that isn’t a bad thing. I want to excel there because the key influencers in both the holding company and the place itself are people we’d want to have be seen in the casino. Kyra Johnson, for all her faults, has a bankroll that would match the majority of our high-rollers. As for the staff? Al Envy is a much bigger name than myself in wrestling. If we can get him to come out here when he needs to talk trade then we can use his influence to entice his peers out here.”
Costello’s face remain unmoved towards this place.
“What’s the bigger reason?”
Recoba blushed slightly, he knew that not divulging the whole truth would only hurt the conversation.
“Honestly, Al. I’m competitive, I like to win…”
Costello smiled at getting to the heart of the matter.
“I was seen as a standout football player at my High School, I had some offers from top-ranking colleges to go play for them but, looking back, I knew even then that I might have made the team but that’d be as far as my talents took me. I could have gone to college and tried out for a team but your offer struck me as one with a much bigger upside. What I can do in HCS is build a name for myself, prove to myself whether or not I can match up against athletic specimens that would make the average man cower behind his beer.”
Costello suspected this might have been the case. Recoba might have risen to a position within the organization where he was almost mission critical but that didn’t stop the flaws from his age shining through. Cross was yet to curb his impulses, at his age it wasn’t seen as a flaw but soon it would be. Much like naivety where it is something to admire at one age but to despise once that age has been surpassed. He had one last thing to clear up before he was done with the Cicero native.
“Lastly, this MMA organization we host. I’m informed you have a meeting regarding the next event here. Why are we even entertaining this man? Shouldn’t the promoter handle this? If we owned Carnegie Hall are we going to negotiate with the cello player?”
This caught Recoba off-guard, he had prepared himself for the wrestling talk but the MMA events had gone for so long now that surely he could be trusted to sort out anything to do with it.
“Perhaps, Al. This is slightly different, last year saw interest in women within combat sports, MMA and wrestling, peak. At the time when the card was being made I inferred to Bob, the MMA company owner, that a card with a female fight headlining in a predominately male promotion would give us a much better way to promote the card.”
“Okay, but why do we have a fighter’s manager staying in a suite, one that we’re comping? Why am I reading reports that his fighter might well pull out citing injury? Why when I asked someone to look into it am I hearing that the reason he is here is because we’re being harried for extra cash for his client?”
Costello wasn’t pulling any punches on this topic.
“I wish there were a simple reason but I’ll try and summarise where I can. Last year, like I said, saw interest in female combat sports rose to a level previously unheard of. The top company within the sport set extremely attractive box-office figures with one of their marquee names, who just happened to be a woman. She appeared in movies, she became someone even a person with little knowledge of her sport would know. It made sense that we look to capitalize on it…Bob, he was less bullish than I was, he wasn’t sure but what he really meant to say was – put some skin in the game if you want to play. So I placed money into the event to make sure it happened…”
“What changed?”
“That fighter? The one with the Hollywood roles and the name-value, she faced off against someone that those in the know saw as a threat but one that was only that. This was a view shared amongst the majority of experts up until the thirtieth second of the first round…three minutes later my investment became a liability. We repositioned the card so that the women’s fight is now the co-main, switched the top two fights…”
“Do you know how you want to deal with this man today?”
“I’ll hear him out, but he knows that we have a few weeks yet before the card, it’s more important for him to get his points across than to have me make a decision today."
Costello could sense he had heard all he needed to.
“Cross, I’m going to be frank, and I want you to realize this isn’t a punishment, nor do I doubt your abilities or think less of them than I did but I want you to hear this from me, face to face, and my reasons first.”
Recoba was now smoking at a faster rate than he usually did. He could feel his head throbbing at what was unlikely to be good news.
“I want you to step back from actually dealing with the Communications team, I want you to delegate the roles to Elliott and another person of your choosing. Explain to them that this is their chance to step-up.”
Cross continued to smoke, his expression changing slightly as his eyes grew wider.
“I don’t want to remove you from the position but I need to ensure that the business isn’t going to suffer when you’re fighting on multiple fronts, pardon the pun. You’ll still have your title but I want it to revert back to what we decided originally, you’ll still be required to provide quotes to the media, but your role will, for now, be something I want to have a bit more control on. If I need you to do work like you did in Burbank that has to take priority. If there are jobs that rely more on the rawer side of your talents then you will be ideally placed to act upon them.
I’ve seen your plans for the year for your team and I approved them, I also know that you’ll have briefed your team heavily on them and consulted with them to create them in the first place. My concern lies in the idea that if anything stops you from putting them into motion we’re hampered, with you overseeing the team but not having to manage them on a day-to-day basis we’ll be able to see how they fare without your constant guidance.”
Costello motioned that the floor was open.
“I can see your points, Al. I don’t like them, but I respect them.”
“There is one last thing, Cross.”
“Yes…”
“I want you to come to me in the future with anything that you count as a potential earner for us before you agree to it. You’ve always had an eye for an investment and that’s why once you gained my trust in that area I never questioned them. But, for now, I don’t want you killing yourself trying to cover everything. We’re a large organization, we have resources, you need to learn that identifying something but not running it isn’t a black mark against you but the sheer reality that you can’t have it all, that not managing something end-to-end isn’t going to be the end of your career. I can’t possibly try to manage everything we have here, so I delegate. I’ll want to know what goes on but ultimately this is why we hire who the caliber we do. Do you understand?”
Cross felt conflicted, he knew Costello had his best interests at heart but that even he wasn’t going to come before all that the old man had built. He’d have to make sure that the next few months counted, no slip ups could be entertained. He also knew that he wasn’t looking forward to the Monday meeting to his team to announce this news, he’d have to call Elliott in the moment he returned from his Hate City Syndicate match before going to the rest of the team.
“Yes, Al.”
“Then I’ll let you go and enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll expect to know how it went with the MMA business before I turn in.”
Recoba smiled to acknowledge the request as he stood to leave. Costello could tell by his gait that it wasn’t the meeting he wanted, but it was the one he needed. Cross wasn’t Superman, and the sooner he realized that fact the better it would be for all involved.
*****
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Post by Lady Munin on Apr 8, 2016 3:08:34 GMT
Checks and Balances
The emails had been flooding in all day with no sign of letting up. Jake could feel a bead of sweat forming in his hairline. Between server issues, college students trying to get an internship or a job of any kind, and media requests, Golding had been swamped. Still the correspondence he received that day that bothered him most wasn’t in his inbox, it was the bank statement on his desk that told him that if they didn’t get funding soon then this dream could be all for nothing.
He could handle the press; they needed success stories in Silicon Valley from start-ups. Every month Google, Amazon, and Facebook bought out numerous start-ups and so the media didn’t have so much of a story when a conglomerate backs them. He had no plans to end up like them though, they were devoid of innovation once the big companies got hold of them, they’d either take the staff and kill off the IP, or worse they’d try to shoehorn it into their existing products and that was never good - ninety percent of the time it alienated the long-term users by no longer being what they wanted and, to the users of the bigger site, it was something that didn’t seem to fit into what they wanted from the service in the first place.
He could handle the job enquiries; he had a form response set out. There was no chance of being able to offer anything in the way of a salary to them, no benefits he could afford to offer and so he didn’t feel too bad about declining all applications. The ones who’d work for free for him weren’t the type of people he’d want and those who he did want could be earning six-figure salaries from one of the giants within five years if they were as smart off the page as they appeared on it.
His one employee worked for him on the same deal that Jake worked on. Every quarter they’d tally up net profit and pay themselves dividends. It was the only way he could afford to pay himself, let alone another person. Salaries could be taken once the app was completely independently viable, that was a long way off. It was only functional within Silicon Valley; that was a strategic move in itself but one that would eventually have to change.
He owned 90% of Culinaire, which was ninety percent of not much on the grand scheme of things. His employee, Dan, hounded him for his job and Jake took him on as a necessity that he could ill-afford. Dan handled the UX design whilst Jake took the back-end programming, it was a hire that had paid off, in a sense. The app looked sleeker and more professional than anything that Jake could offer up. His talent lay in the nuts and bolts as opposed to the aesthetic.
The dwindling cash reserves however played on Jake’s mind constantly, the current financial projections didn’t give good odds that he’d be sitting in this office within twelve months but investors, whilst not short in supply, were short in how long they could deal with Jake.
That was the issue, he needed someone who was good at marketing, at schmoozing, all the stuff that Jake hated at High School. That was all Silicon Valley was; it was High School just with more facial hair and a lot more money at stake.
He’d attend the VC meetings, meet with Angel investors, but nothing ever came of it. They wanted a cool founder like Zuckerberg, a rebel like Jobs, or even an asshole like Mark Pincus at Zynga. Jake was just a kid who wanted to do well, and he didn’t do a good job of selling himself. He’d turn up, sit down at the table and walk away with nothing whilst brogrammers took the money to fund their beer pong table or the slide they had rather than stairs.
The more he thought about it the more a fugue cast across his mind. He looked at the statement and fed it into the shredder. It’d be there online somewhere; he just couldn’t deal with it taunting him right now.
He clicked on the first email and saw it was someone asking how he was. He picked up the phone and started dialling - a little chat never hurt anyone.
There’s a lot that you can say about the first PAW show that can apply to my upcoming match. Ill-thought-out, booked for the extremists, and really should be a bigger deal than it ultimately would become. The move didn’t surprise me, I’d not gone more than a mile from the arena when I saw the rumors surfacing on Twitter that Sam and Munin didn’t see the upside on his debuting of Garibaldi’s Guillotine in their company.
Now, in my world what we do is we sit down and we discuss the matter. We treat each side like adults and try to get to the bottom of it; if it’s an honest miscommunication then we treat it as such. What we don’t do is shit the bed and overreact.
That’s what the main event for this show is – it’s a glorified humiliation. They want me to walk down the aisle and march to the gallows asking me to come across as if it’s business as usual, that I’m confident that I’ll walk out with the win but – I’m not. I’m not throwing in the towel but we all need to face facts – I’m going up against a man who is so large that the intern they had calling the action last week calls him YetiPress. That’s not someone who has ever been worried about being caught in a bar-fight, it’s not someone who is overly troubled with the dilemma of cracking a walnut with a sledgehammer, you don’t get that name by being someone blessed with ring-smarts.
If it were just him in the ring it’d be a different story – I’m blessed with agility and speed that he could only dream of possessing. I’d focus on grounding him, he focuses on keeping himself on his feet, his offense entirely based around picking me up and slamming me to the mat so that eventually I won’t be able to get back up. I’d keep the match at a pace that isn’t comfortable for him, make it difficult for him to find his rhythm. Kids, life lesson via David Attenborough – large animals move slower due to the cardiovascular limitations their size inflicts on them. It takes more effort to pump the blood around their larger bodies.
That’s Plan A, right there. I don’t even mind revealing it – what’s he going to do? The Bombtrax aren’t exactly friends with the Benjamins right now, they can’t afford to splice Usain Bolt into Press’ body. I can’t put the Guillotine on him – it just isn’t feasible, that’s mostly because of the insurance policy in the match that Munin has inserted to make sure I know that I’m not expected to win.
Flaming Youth, the speed in the Bombtrax, will be officiating the bout. If I slap that hold on Press I’ve got no limbs free and do I think Youth is going to bother asking Press if he wants to tap? No! He’ll be coming off the ropes ready to place a spinning heel kick to my temple. Will he count a pin I make after the Sicilian Typewriter? Not a chance in Hell, he’ll be waiting for my head to pop up to find out why he isn’t counting – that’s when he’ll deliver a kick to my jaw and as I reel back a Shining Wizard’ll put me on my back!
That leaves only one real way I can end the match and come out victorious. I’m going to have to knock out one of the largest men on the roster. I’m going to have to deliver an intensity that they haven’t seen. I’m going to have to make sure that covers are out, that any time I have the momentum on my side that I don’t stay still – if I stay still then I’m as good as injured.
Munin, here are the stark realities – you’ve booked arguably your most bankable star in a match knowing that the odds are that I’m going to be wearing this match for a while after the final bell rings. You’ve turned the main event of your show into retribution, into a petty vendetta, for no-one’s benefit but your own. If Press wins, no shit, his partner was the referee. If Press loses, how does he come back from that? If I lose, it’s expected, if I win – well, you might hear the words ‘re-up’ and ‘imminent raise’ coming from my camp shortly.
When that bell rings I’ll be going in there the underdog, I have nothing to prove in there, nothing in ways of expectations to be met. You can sit there and tell yourself the means justified the end but here’s the truth – I’m smarter than you, I’m smarter than my opponents, and I’m smarter than the crowd that pay to come to the Xayarena. If you don’t think I’m coming into this match with an ace up my sleeve then prepare to find yourself mistaken!
“Guys, I’m excited for what you can make of this. You know you can take this on and succeed.”
Cross delivered the words with as much sincerity as he could muster. Dropping his guard to reveal he was human to his staff wasn’t something that he was prepared to do. If Al wanted him to oversee the department from afar that was one thing but Cross wasn’t going to unburden himself to his team. He wasn’t going to give away the fact that, when you’re used to praise, criticism wasn’t something he was overly familiar with.
Elliott and Cassie nodded back across the desk from him; their faces reflected that they knew the opportunity in front of them. While a few years older than Cross they had been impressed by his astuteness when it came to the world they worked in. The team was the envy of their peers. Both Elliott and Cassie found that in comparison with their PR peers – they had never been treated with kid gloves. Now he was handing off the day-to-day operations to them, he’d be taking a hands-off approach and only meeting once a week.
Recoba had wracked his brains over this meeting; it had to go exactly how he planned. He couldn’t risk losing face in front of the team he’d spent the last year impressing his values on. It was a throwback to his Sicilian upbringing – if you were asked something in the Recoba household you didn’t say you didn’t know the answer. If you didn’t know the answer then you needed to find out what the answer was. Real men were always sure, no-one wanted to be around someone who hesitated, who second-guessed their decisions. When he arrived at The Sands he noticed Costello was the same. The man made decisions and never doubted himself, but where he differed from his upbringing was that Al would make sure he got all the facts first. The Costello tweak on the Recoba value made all the difference.
Cassie and Elliott stood and left Cross’ office. He opened the top drawer of his dark wood desk and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. He’d noticed his nicotine intake has been steadily rising over the course of a week. He thought maybe Costello was right – maybe he was spreading himself too thin. He checked his schedule and realized he’d be chasing his tail for most of the week. He had a match on Tuesday night with Muru in Texas then back here, but to what? He’d be flying out to Louisiana within twenty four hours of returning from that match, last week he had no time to spare and it felt comfortable. Now he was back to staking out his inbox waiting on the other side of business to kick in.
He opened the lid on his laptop and hit F5 to refresh his emails but there was nothing that screamed urgent to him. He’d split his role between the two of them, he was there to be Costello to their Recoba. It all felt so foreign to him, he’d been instructed, he’d led work on the books and off, now he operated in the bizarre world between the two. Something needed to change and quickly – he just wasn’t sure what or where the change was.
*****
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