SEMI-FINALS: PRESS versus RECOBA

The BombTrax pulled into the separate parking lot of The Crossroads, and killed the car. Just by looking around at the variety of cars spotted outside the park, no one would have ever thought that a little company like Pure Amusement could have so many internal problems.

First, Unreal pretty much tried to hijack the show starting at WICKED#1. She tried to manipulate Sam Xayachack into letting her have her way, and to a certain extent, the smitten general manager actually conceded. She got her own business inside the theme park, Unreal’s House of Fun. She still got to be a presence on the shows, despite not being allowed to be an active in ring competitor. But at the end of the day, the bitch was crazy, and that proved even too much for Xayachack to handle.

He had taken her disappearance hard. Both men could remember the dark circles under his eyes when they had seen him at their meeting with Munin to clear up the debacle that had transpired at WICKED#3, an event that was ultimately linked back to Unreal as well. Sam, being the consummate professional, threw himself into his work, booking an awesome card for WICKED#4, and even finding time to do radio and promotions.

Yet, when the time came, and everyone was gathered in the Xayarena for another installment of PAW entertainment, the general manager was nowhere to be seen. At first, Munin was pissed, and rightfully so. It left her holding the bag, a position she was fast becoming familiar with, and one that she was starting to despise. Without Sam’s presence at the show, she was pulled in a million different directions, dealing with both talent and production problems, so that when the Main Event finally started, she wasn’t exactly in a position to stop what happened after the match was over.

Stevie Harris had threatened every opponent up to this point with that noose, so much so, that everyone had sort of become accustomed to it. After all, it never actually came into play. It was just there as a prop, a threat, that would never reach fruition. That is, until it did.

The two men had watched from the back on a monitor as the noose slipped over Johnny Raike’s head, and Stevie Harris cinched it up tight like the draw strings on a trash bag. They exchanged a glance when Raike was tossed over the top rope to the floor, and both Harris and Lola began pulling on the rope. When Johnny’s toes left the cement floor, his eyes bulged from the strain around his neck, and they knew he was in trouble.

4Loco tried to intervene, but Lola cut him off, and he had his hands tied with the fiery woman who kept screaming Harris’ gospel. Even the crowd, as blood thirsty as they come, were forced to turn away in horror as Raike’s skin began to turn blue. Finally, having seen enough, just about the entire crew, from production to talent, rushed the ring, sending Harris and Lola scrambling over the guard rail to escape through the crowd. EMT’s removed the noose from Johnny’s neck to reveal rope burns, and a man that was damn near unconscious.

Normally, The BombTrax wouldn’t have really cared about the attack, except for the fact that Johnny Raike had put on the performance of a lifetime, and had proven why he was a top draw in the company, despite coming up short. The attack had proven multiple things to not only talent, but staff as well. One, Stevie Harris was a deranged man. Two, there was a line, no matter how thin, between violent entertainment and attempted murder. Three, and probably the most notable, this was like an exclamation point on Sam Xayachack’s absence.

In the days that followed the show, Munin’s fury at being abandoned turned to one of concern. After her own thorough investigation of the park grounds and Sam’s motorcade, she finally made the decision to phone the police and issue a missing person’s report. The authorities searched the same grounds, seeing no forced entries or signs of struggle. Everything was as he had left it, including his drug paraphernalia and contraband. The Police didn’t seem as interested in that, as they were the fact that it didn’t appear that he took anything with him when he went, and decided that the matter was now an official investigation.

Everyone was questioned, including The BombTrax, who’s only real information was when they saw him two weeks ago on Fat Tuesday. With few details to go on, the investigation didn’t take long, and other than an active APB, the matter was considered open until further notice. In laymen’s terms, no one had a clue.

This left PAW in a pickle. Munin, being the owner, and only remaining member of the executive staff, had the role of scouting talent, providing input and feedback, and was directly in charge of public relations. Not just for PAW, but the entire amusement park. She wasn’t accustomed to booking, production, and the other aspects that went along with Sam’s job. That’s why she had hired him as General Manager in the first place. As usual, she was just as determined to see PAW successful as anyone, so she pushed forward in the professional manner that most had grown accustomed to.

Press swung open the driver’s side door of the Pontiac, and stepped out of the car. When he looked over at his partner, Youth just sat there, an expression of disillusionment on his face. Despite losing, his match with Alex Cross had been epic. There was no reason for the young man to feel put out by the loss, yet that’s exactly where he was. He hadn’t said much in the past week other than one word answers, and the brooding manner in which he was conducting himself just didn’t fit his usual profile.

Press sighed, and leaned down to look into the car. “Hey, man. Why don’t you come into the Crossroads and get a bite to eat?”

Youth cast his friend a downtrodden glance, and shrugged his shoulders. “I think I’m just going to go walk around the park, if that’s alright. I don’t feel much like being social.”

Press started to say something, then stopped himself before he made the situation worse. With another sigh, he simply nodded, and closed the door behind him before making his way towards the entrance to the Crossroads.

It was around mid-afternoon, and the bar was settling in with some of its regulars from Purity, the other patrons would arrive later in the evening when the band started to play. It was just as well as far as Press was concerned, as he wanted the chance to just relax and enjoy a beer with his friend Samedi. Those two hadn’t spoken since Fat Tuesday, when Press had made a mess of himself thanks to a bottle of Jack Daniels. He figured he probably owed the old priest an apology, at the very least, some money for the trouble.

As he made his way to the bar, he couldn’t help but notice the blonde stifling sobs over in the corner. Brandy Irving looked like a complete nutcase, her hair wadded up in a haphazard ponytail, and her face streaked with mascara. There were gobs of used tissue paper littering the table in front of her, and a pink drink with an umbrella that had barely been touched. He grimaced at the sight of the broken woman, thinking, ‘Is that what I looked like the other night?’

Press finally reached the bar, and Samedi met him with an already full beer as he took a stool. Samedi cast a glance over the big man’s shoulder at Brandy, and shook his head. “You should go and talk to her, see if you can’t calm her down. It’s bad for business.”

“Me!” Press replied incredulously. “You’re the bartender. Doesn’t that come with an automatic therapist license?”

Samedi chuckled, and leaned back against the counter. “Usually, but you and her have history.”

“What history?” Press asked, raising an eyebrow to accompany the question. “Oh, you must mean that time I told her to shut the fuck up, and get out of my way.” He beamed.

Sam shook his head once again, this time in disappointment. “You of all people should know how she feels, considering your last trip to the Crossroads. I didn’t want to have to put it this way, but perhaps that’s your penance for your own sloppy actions.”

Press shook his head in disgruntled disbelief. He shoved off from his stool, grabbing his beer in his meaty paw, and then stared begrudgingly at the Cajun. “Fine. But I’m not so sure this is penance as much as it is your bullshit.”

Samedi flashed him his skeleton like smile, and Press just rolled his eyes and sauntered towards Brandy’s table. She looked up from her drink at his approach, and upon sighting the big man, she scrunched up her nose, and then turned her head to the side to wipe at her eyes with one of the Kleenex. Press plopped down into the seat opposite her, and leaned back before resting his beer on the table.

Brandi made one final sweep of her face, balled the tissue into her fist, and then turned to regard the big man with a hostile demeanor. “What the hell do you want?”

Press smirked at the woman’s false tenacity, and took a sip of his beer before answering. “Well, I figured I’d come over here and see if you’re alright. You seem a little upset.”

“Upset! UPSET!” Her voice rose into a shrill, and then she leaned in across the table and spoke in a grating tone. “Sam’s been abducted by that crazy bitch and everyone knows it, but isn’t doing anything about it!”

Press nodded, gripping his mug to the point of almost breaking to keep from smarting off with a dick reply. “Maybe so, Brandi, probably even the most likely scenario, but there’s no evidence of that. As it stands, Sam Xayachack is just missing in action. If he comes back, great. If not, then we all have to learn to move on with our lives. The business never sleeps, and stands still for no one.”

Brandy deflated back into her seat, and her lower lip quivered as if she were about to burst into a new gale of tears anytime. “This business! I wouldn’t even be in this business if it hadn’t been for Sam.” She said in a broken voice.

“Why are you in this business?” Press questioned, wondering how someone as simple as Brandi ever made it into the lead journalist role in the first place.

“Well,” Brandy began, her eyes meeting his for the first time since she started talking. “Sam gave me a call when he got the General Manager’s job, and though I would be a good on air personality. I asked him in what way, he said as the lead journalist. I thought he was talking about a real job, but it wasn’t after I had already uprooted and moved all the way out here that I found out that I was going to be a backstage interviewer which is the equivalent of being a wrestlers trash can.”

Press chuckled, and her eyes grew hard, thinking that he was laughing at her, and in a way he was. “You know, you wrestlers are all real assholes. Even the ones who act like heroes on television. No one ever calls ahead and says, ‘hey, Brandy, I’d like to do a promo’, or ‘Brandy, would you mind asking me a few questions?’ Hell no! I have to claw, scrape, and beg to get a few words from you lummoxes, and even then, you belittle me and push me out of the shot. Fuck it, why am I still here? Without Sam, there’s no point.” Brandi threw her arms up onto the table, and buried her head into the crease of her elbow in hopelessness.

Press watched all this with disinterest, but finally sighed before doing something that he really didn’t want to do. “What is it about Xayachack and blondes, sheesh, I tell you. Listen, Brandy, you’re not going anywhere. Munin can’t deal with another disappearance, and regardless of what you think your role is, PAW does need a backstage interviewer. Someone to hold the mic while the rest of us get into our flow. I guess what I’m saying is,” He paused, not believing he was about to say this. “Can I get an interview?”

Brandy looked up from under her eyelashes in shock, a glimmer of hope and excitement evident in her eyes. “Really?”

Press rolled his eyes, “Yeah, really.”

Brandy bolted up to her feet, tucking her purse under her arm, and made way for the door leading into the park. She looked over her shoulder as she passed, and said, “Well, aren’t you coming.”

Press’ jaw tightened, and he looked over at the bar where Samedi continued to regard him with the skeletal like grin. He mouthed the words ‘Fuck You’ at the Cajun, before draining his mug of beer, and then making his way to follow the reporter.  The walk to the Xayarena wasn’t too far, but it felt like an eternity to Press as he had to listen to Brandy Irving go on and on about what a big opportunity this was to set the record straight, and all the different things they could talk about. By the time they finally reached the building, and the production department, he felt like a prisoner walking to his execution.

Brandy stopped by the equipment room, banging on the door and yelling for ‘Frank to get his shit, and come on’, before leading him to one of the interview areas that had a desk with two chairs behind it, the PAW logo hanging dead center on the wall behind them.

Press sank down into one of the chairs, reaching up and pulling his hand across his face in an exasperated fashion. Brandy stepped over to a mini-fridge, producing two bottles of water, setting one of them in front of him. He stared at the bottle of water, and thought, ‘Jesus Christ, how long does she think this interview will take?’ before taking it and unscrewing the top.

Frank bustled into the room with his cables in tow, darting around the camera area before taking a seat in a director’s chair, and signaling Brandy she was a go.  While Frank had been setting up, Brandy had been fixing her makeup, pinching her cheeks, and teasing her hair. Just before she took the seat beside Press, she smoothed out the front of her blouse, and made duck faces with her mouth. The big man watched all of this, annoyance already creeping up his spine, but resolved to see this through for the sake of Munin not losing another employee.

When she was finally settled, she looked up at the camera with her over exuberant smile and fake demeanor, and launched into her duties. “Hello, PAW Universe, I’m field reporter Brandy Irving, and my guest at this time is one half of The BombTrax, a semi-finalist in the PAW Championship Tournament, and one of the most feared individuals in the industry. Press, how are you tonight?"

Press regarded the woman with a sidelong glance, but begrudgingly leaned forward to rest his arm on the table. “I’m doing fine, Brandy. Just happy to be here.”

Brandy trudged on despite his lackadaisical tone. “Good to hear it. So let’s just dive right into it, shall we? Last week we saw one of the most heinous acts that any of us have ever witnessed during a live show, when Stevie Harris essentially hung Johnny Raike with a noose. Though that DVD won’t be released due to the graphic nature of the attack, all those in attendance will have it etched into their minds for a long time to come. Do you think those actions were warranted, and what punishment, if any, should Stevie Harris face, considering he also advanced in the tournament?”

“Well,” Press began, “That’s just the ticket isn’t it. Stevie Harris did advance. If he hadn’t, maybe a suspension or a fine would be in order, but that’s not how it all played out. If he were to get suspended now, it would screw up the entire dynamic of the tournament, and cheat the fans out of a clear cut victor. There would always be that question….What would have happened if Stevie had been allowed to compete. So, no, suspension is out of the question.”

Press paused to take a sip of water, and then continued.

“No, you see, if this were a just world, PAW wouldn’t need a suspension or a fine to teach him a lesson. He would advance in his match against Alex Cross, I’ll move forward over Cross Recoba, and on St. Patrick’s Day, I’d give ole’ Stevie all the punishment he’d ever need. That bastard would be like a dog that had been drinking out of the toilet, and I’d be the rolled up newspaper beating his ass. But that’s only if we were living in a just world, Brandy, and I’m not one to count chickens before they hatch.”

“Probably a good policy in these uncertain waters. Speaking of Stevie’s opponent this week, how is Youth taking his defeat at the hands of Alex Cross? That was a very close match, definitely one for the high light reel.”

Press shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the mention of Alex, his lip curling back despite trying to be on his best behavior. “Damn right, it was close. That just goes to show you that on any given day, at any given time, anyone can have their day. Alex Cross won by a second. One measly little second, and that’s all it takes in this game. The right reversal, at the exact right time, and with a little luck you’re the one holding your hand over your head in victory. I think Jack Swanson can appreciate that euphemism, considering what happened in our match. The only thing I have to say to the hungry bastard is that he actually surprised me.”

Brandy’s eyebrow shot up. “In what way?”

“When I first heard about him I thought it was a joke, and I figured I’d have a cakewalk, but Jack showed me that he’s serious, and that he’s here to stay. So for that, regardless of what he thinks of me, I guess he’s earned my respect.”

“Interesting. I didn’t think The BombTrax were capable of doling out praise.” Brandy said, a smug expression on her face.

Press looked over, his eyes going dark. “Well I guess when someone actually does something worth praising, they’ll get it.”

Brandy, realizing she’d unsettled the pleasant nature of their conversation, quickly shifted subjects. “Alright, so that leaves us with the main focus, in your case, Cross Recoba. The first time you two met was the Main Event of WICKED#2, in what was considered a much anticipated matchup that ended with you taking a dive for a briefcase full of cash. Recoba, however, ended up with a pretty serious back injury thanks to your post-match beat down, which I’m sure many feel was a just desert for the Italian. Now, in about one week, we’ll see you take on Cross one more time, but this reporter is predicting that there won’t be any buy outs this time."

Press grinned, and stared straight at the camera. “On that point, Brandy, you are one hundred percent correct. That little partnership was a onetime thing, and the only reason it ended poorly for Mr. Recoba is because he couldn’t help himself from flapping those gums just a little too long. You see, there’s no amount of money to stop what happens this time. This is for the PAW Championship, a belt in which I have no intention of letting slip through my fingers. Now a lot of people are going to probably point out the fact that Cross is undefeated up to this point in his career here at PAW, and I do have a blemish on my record. One I handed directly over to him.”

"I’m not the kind of guy to rehash the past. What’s done is done. The only thing that ever really matters in the wrestling industry is what you’re going to do next. But you have to admit Cross, it’s almost kismet. The minute I saw myself at the top of the bracket, and I saw you at the bottom of the same, I knew that this was going to happen. It’s almost as if it’s the only way it really could’ve turned out. You, Me, A-Ref, and that squared circle. We both had to polish off two other opponents to get here, but my friend, we have arrived.”

“You see, I’m not going to offer you any deals like Ryan McCollum, nor am I going to try and school you in loyalty like James Edwards. Hell, I’m not even going to go forward with any of those typical match prediction like comments that paint me out to be the winner, cause if we’re being honest Cross, the one thing I know, without a shadow of a doubt, is that you are good at what you do. I could go on, and on, and on about why you do it when it’s obvious you’ll probably do that for me, so fuck it. I could talk about your other business ventures, and shit like that, but it’s pointless.”

“All that really matters, Cross, is that I see you for exactly what you are. Not that flashy suit or the money you carry around in your briefcase. Nah, I’m sure you enjoy the finer things in life, but that’s just a gimmick. Something to entice these fans, hell the other members of the roster, to hate you with everything they got, cause that makes it that much easier when you show up and reveal who you really are.”

“And that..” Press paused, pointing at the camera for emphasis. “Is a guy who will do anything he has to do to get what he wants out of life. I respect that. I understand it. You got all this shit around you in Vegas, but the one thing you don’t have is a real fucking challenge. Something, or someone, to step up to the plate and really sock it to you. You’ve been running around on auto pilot, and you’re so god damn sick of it that you’d do just about anything to feel something more than that pathetic lump in your throat every time you look around and see that nothings fucking changed. Maybe something like professional wrestling.”

Press smiled, staring at the camera with dark orbs.

“I get why you’d be an athlete. I have no idea whether it’s natural, or earned, and it doesn’t really matter. You gotta have a body to go with the duds, right? But you could have picked any sport in the world, Cross. Hell, I had you pegged as a Tennis or Golf guy, which I’m sure if I gave a shit, I’d find your name on a few of the courses back home. But no, you chose a very specific way to deal with your apathy. You chose to put yourself in a position to where you might just get your teeth rammed down your throat. You chose a path, where you might actually lose. A thought that would never occur to you in that other life.”

His smile turns into a grin, and he laces his fingers, and cracks his knuckles.

“How’s that back doing, Cross? You probably haven’t told the doctor the one hundred percent truth about that, because he’d probably require you to take time off to heal, and you couldn’t have that. The fans don’t know about it, because they aren’t trained to pay attention to it. But me, yeah, I saw it. Small little tells that came across as easy as the greedy guy at the poker table. A wince when you reached down to pull McCullom off the mat. A grimace when you had your own move locked in on Edwards, the torque sending a sliver of pain down your spine. I may not know a lot, but I know that eats your ass up, don’t it? You’re the dirty bastard cause you tried to bribe me, but I’m the dirty bastard that put that pain on you. They booed you for your deeds, cheered me for mine. But shit, that doesn’t even factor in with guys like us. That’s how I know your whole demeanor is a work.”

“But your psychosis goes even deeper than that, doesn’t it? You probably justify these wrestling shenanigans as some sort of extracurricular business dealings, where you go out and become one of the names, drawing the attention back to your day job. Fuck, man, what better way to draw attractions than to become one? And all that tells me is that you are a lot smarter than the smug cock sucker you portray for the audience. Hell, I bet if I thought about it long enough, I probably justify this shit one way or another myself.”

“But the truth is, there is just no other fucking high on this planet than tasting your own blood, looking over at the guy that fed it to you, and knowing that you both want the same damn thing. You can’t always get that though, cause people are driven by different motivations. Some are seeking fame, others championships, but me and You, Cross, we’re gonna be looking across that ring at one another, and it’s going to be like looking into a god damn mirror, except I’ve lost around 130 pounds.”

Press smirked, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“I’m not going to guarantee victory. I can’t. You might be giving up the size, but you’ll make up for it with everything else, and that’s what’s going to make this the match of the night. Cause as sure as I’m going to do my damnedest to break your skull open, I know you’re going to be right there, gouging at my eyes and gripping at my throat. That’s what makes us. THAT. Is who you are.”

“So I look forward to seeing you at WICKED#5. Just two guys with nothing to prove. Nothing to hide. Nothing but the blood that’s going to be spilled between two friends.”

Press spat the last line through his teeth, and then turned his gaze back to Brandy Irving, a vicious tint to his voice.

“Any more questions?”

The blonde shook her head ‘no’, mesmerized, almost hypnotized by the calm cadence that carried the entire promo. Press simply smiled at her response, and then pushed up from the desk, and past the camera out of view. He power walked through the production department, and eventually out of the Xayarena altogether. When he reached a few paces away from the building, he looked around for a good spot to hide for a minute, feeling the emotions creeping up into him.

He found just the spot a little further down the lane, a back alley that ran behind the House of Fun and the Rock N’ Rollercoaster. He put his hands on his knees, and breathed in deeply, his cheeks going flush from the shuddering breaths. He wasn’t prone to anxiety, at least no more than the average person, but this was different. He had meant every word of what he had said about Cross Recoba, and just hearing his own self-description awoke something dark and hidden inside his soul. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all, and someone was going to have to pay for it.