Post by Press1269 on Feb 15, 2016 1:43:59 GMT
The BombTrax had made a hasty exit from Shreveport, knowing that the inevitable interrogation was coming after the events of WICKED#3. Someone, or someone’s, had commandeered the sound booth, rolling a prerecorded audio that painted the PAW management team of Sam Xayachack and Munin as two imbecils who neither cared nor were capable of running their company. It wasn’t a pretty picture, and had most in attendance, including the locker room, confused.
Normally this wouldn’t have concerned The BombTrax, as they would have seen it as just another ploy in the ongoing saga of Unreal and Xayachack, but this was different. When the abducted sound tech was found, he had a note hanging from around his neck that read, ‘The BombTrax Made Me Do It…’. The problem with that scenario, is that neither of the men had a clue as to what was going on, and weren’t about to take the fall for some bullshit prank pulled because Xayachack couldn’t keep his bitch on a leash.
But that was just the thing. She was on a leash, or rather, in a kennel, way back at the amusement park in Purity. They had found this out from 4Loco when they were booking it to the car, and the head of security had tried to detain them for questioning. Unfortunately for Loco, the BombTrax didn’t feel that they had anything to answer for, and had left the arena despite his protests.
You would have thought this would be a night of celebration, considering that both men had gone out and done exactly what they said they were going to do to their opponents, and emerged victorious in both contests. It was just one more step in their claim to fame, pushing them forward in the PAW Championship Tournament. On a night like tonight, under normal circumstances, they would still be in their locker rooms celebrating with a few beers, soaking in the experience of their victories. Hell, they might have even stuck around to sign a few autographs, and spend time with the fans.
But this wasn’t a normal night, and silence filled the cabin of the Pontiac like a vacuum. Press realized almost as soon as they left that it was probably a mistake. It all but made them look guilty, and he knew that the phone calls and texts would start rolling in any time. First from Munin, then Sam, probably even from what passed as journalists around these parts. Perhaps even from the police, if it was determined this was a criminal injunction and not just a part of the show. He could see the article already in print with Brandon Mckay’s byline at the top of the page, “BombTrax arrested after Audio Tech pummeled.”
They were on Interstate 49 in Alexandra, and had been on the road for over two hours, before Youth finally brought his feet down off the dash and scooted over to where his back was leaning against the door, until finally facing Press. “Well,” he paused, searching his brain for his next words. He shrugged, not sure there were any, and launched right into his first thought. “What the hell was that?”
Press’ expression was stoic for most of the trip thus far, and it never changed when he responded. “Good question.”
“Um..” Youth began hesitantly. “Did we have anything to do with this?”
Press shot a glance over at his partner, and shook his head before returning his gaze back to the road. “Not unless there’s something you want to tell me?”
“ME!?!” Youth exclaimed. He could feel his face getting warm with a touch of anger that usually came when someone was falsely accused. “What about you?” he snapped.
“What about me?” Press roared, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “For one thing, I was with you for the majority of the night. When did I have time to slip off and pull this off? Secondly, I wasn’t the one who disappeared to play dominoes with the fucking janitor before the biggest match of my career. “
“Bud can confirm my whereabouts. What about you? You got an alibi?” Youth asked indignantly, not liking the implication that he didn’t take his career seriously.
“I don’t need a fucking alibi, cause I didn’t do anything.” Press growled, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. “We’re being set up, and there’s only one person I can think of who would have wasted the time it took to put this cockamamie scheme together.”
“Yeah, but 4Loco said she’s locked up back at the park. How could she pull this off?”
“I don’t know, and don’t really care. This whole thing reeks of her M.O.”
“I agree, but that won’t matter if this shit gets legal. What if she paid off the sound guy, and he corroborates his story with the note around his neck? If he names us, we could be looking at some real trouble. Maybe we should have stuck around, got a look at the guy, face to face, in order to let him know that if he lies this ends badly for him.”
“Maybe, but we’re already gone, and that’s that. We’ll have to cross the legal bridge if, and when it comes.”
Just then Press phone rang, bringing the conversation to a stop. He lifted the device from the console to check the ID, and scrolling across the top of the screen was the name ‘Munin’. He put the phone back down on the console, and returned his hand to the steering wheel.
Youth noticed the name as well, and returned his gaze to Press expectantly. “You aren’t going to answer?” He asked incredulously.
“Listen, kid, I’m tired, and don’t feel like hashing this out right now. Old Knux put on a pretty good showing out there, and I’m not as young as I used to be. We’ll deal with this shit in the morning. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”
Suddenly Youth’s phone chimed, and he checked it to see ‘Munin’ scrolling across his own screen. He shook his head in indecision, but eventually pushed the unanswered phone back down into his pocket.
“I’ve got a really bad feeling about all this.” He commented, turning back around to sit normally.
“Don’t go getting all Han Solo on me. Everything’s going to work out, and we’ll have a fresher perspective on it in the morning. Deal?” Press asked hopefully.
Youth gave a deep sigh of reservation, then nodded. “Deal.”
The two returned to their own private musings for a while, nothing but the open road before them, and the clicking of tires meeting interstate reflectors for the next several miles the only sound between them. The phones rang a few more times, but neither man bothered to check, allowing their voicemails to fill up. They already knew who it would be, and didn’t feel like trying to explain something that they had nothing to do with in the first place.
A couple of hours had passed since any calls had come in for either of them, and they were thundering down Interstate 10, having left Baton Rouge behind them about thirty minutes ago. Press guestimated they would be home in about an hour, and was looking forward to a nice long sleep. Knux had been right. He was indeed pissed, and Press could feel some of that anger in his aching neck and shoulders. In the end, however, all the anger in the world couldn’t stop the inevitable. One powerbomb later, and Press was in the next round against Genesis Hendrix.
Both phones chimed at the same time, and both Press & Youth exchanged a brief glance, before Youth fished his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the screen blankly, and then let out a chuckle of surprise.
Press looked over expectantly, and Youth turned to him and grinned. “Genesis Hendrix just quit PAW. Looks like you’ve got a free ride into the semi-finals.”
Press’ eyes went wide with shock, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Why the fuck would she do that? I mean, she got off to a rough start with Harris, but that hillbilly’s an asshole. She made up for it with that absolute stomping of Frost to advance in the Tourney. This makes no fucking sense!”
“What it does,” Youth chimed in, “Is advance you in this tournament without you having to even do anything. I mean, I have to take on Alex Cross in two weeks, and I’m sure that won’t be a cakewalk.”
“Fuck Alex Cross. You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe, but not as fine as you are with your straight walk into the semi-finals.”
Press shook his head. “There’s no way that will stand, especially after what happened with this audio thing. I guarantee that Xayachack will come up with some bullshit stipulation that allows him to place someone in front of me.”
Youth brought his hand up to his chin in consternation, and nodded. “You’re probably right. I wonder who it will be.”
**********
“’Hungry’ Jack Swanson” Press sat there staring at Youth with a dumbfound expression.
The two men had rolled into New Orleans at around 5a.m., and went directly to their apartment building at The Strand for some much needed shut eye. When they finally got up it was mid-afternoon, and Youth was already in the kitchen preparing a big breakfast/lunch when Press stumbled into the room. He took a bag of frozen corn out of the refrigerator, and laid it right across his neck before plopping down in one of the chairs at the dining table. That Ragnarock N’ Roll Moonsault he took on the outside had Luke’s knee driving right down into his left shoulder, and the entire area was throbbing in discomfort.
He took his phone and sat it on the table in front of him, a look of trepidation on his face. All in all, there had been seven missed calls, and three voice mails. Four from Munin, two from Sam, and one from 4Loco. He sighed before making the call to Munin, which was answered by her assistant Ji. It was a short conversation that ended with an agreement to meet at The Crossroads tomorrow morning for a face to face. He got the feeling that Ji was a bit stressed at being the messenger, his voice strained and the message very white washed.
He knew that Munin was going to be pissed, but surely she didn’t think they had anything to do with this. The regret from last night about leaving so abruptly crept back into his thoughts, and he shook his head indignantly. They should have stayed to at least back up Munin with Xayachack, but he wasn’t sure if that would have really helped. This was the very thing Xayachack needed to put him and Munin back on an even playing field after Unreal’s antics on WICKED#2, and that’s why it was too perfect to be anyone else but that lunatic. Locked up or not, she somehow got to someone earlier in the week and put this whole fiasco into motion.
Youth stepped over and dropped a plate of eggs, bacon, and French toast in front of the big man, and then carried his own plate to the opposite side of the table and took a seat. The two devoured the two in silence, and when they were done, Youth took in a long sigh before telling Press who had replaced Genesis Hendrix in the tournament.
Press still sat there with a look of confusion on his face, as Youth nodded. “Yep. ‘Hungry’ Jack Swanson.”
“Who, or what, is a ‘Hungry’ Jack Swanson? Isn’t that like canned biscuits or something?”
Youth chuckled, and shook his head ‘no’. “He’s one of the guys that were in that dark match at the very beginning of the show before the cameras started rolling. He won that match, and Xayachack decided that earned him a spot in the tourney since Gen decided to bail.”
“Ok,” Press replied, motioning with his hand for Youth to continue. “What do you know about the guy?”
“Wrestling wise, not much. Apparently last night was his first wrestling match ever. Or at least the first of any consequence, considering it put him in the brackets facing you. He’s a big one, though. Bigger than you, just not quite as tall.”
Press’ brow furrowed at the comment, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “How big?”
“6’6”, 400 pounds.” Youth responded. “He’s a former competitive eater. Won a few championships according to his bio.”
“Competitive eating is a professional sport?” Press asked skeptically.
“Yep. Apparently it’s a big deal. I heard about a few competitions when we were living in Vegas. It was kind of huge. They even have world champions and everything in different events.”
“What the fuck? There are different events?”
“Dude, you got ice cream, hot dogs, pizza, just about anything you could think of. Hot dogs seem to be the big ticket winner. This one guy in Japan is like the number one guy. He ate 62 hot dogs in ten minutes. I think he holds the record for Bacon and Dumplings as well. What’s crazy is he’s only like 126 pounds!”
“So, let me get this straight. This Jack Swanson guy made a living cramming shit in his mouth? People paid him for this?” Press was stunned.
“Yeah, I know right. We should have gotten you into this shit! I bet even he couldn’t match you taco for taco at El Sombrero’s!”
“You know, I once won an ice cream eating contest at Field Day in the 4th grade. If I had known someone would pay me to do that, I probably would have never made it into wrestling. What have I been doing with my life?”
“I can see it now,” Youth looks off into the distance with a slight smile on his face. “Preston Jones, Ice Cream Cone Champion!”
Press stared indignantly across the table at Youth as he broke out in uncontrolled laughter. The big man abruptly stood up, causing his partner to stifle for a moment with a questioning glance, and the now partially thawed bag of corn to hit the table. They both looked down at the package, and there across the front read, ‘Swanson’s Sweet Corn’.
Youth doubled over in laughter, falling out of his chair as Press stared at the package, anger building up in his throat. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” He roared, before storming through the kitchen and out the front door.
Youth held up his hand to try and halt his partner, but couldn’t gain control of himself. Through intermittent giggles he exclaimed, “Wait! Come back! You didn’t clean your plate!” The last came out in a gasp as he was wracked with another bout of laughter, but Press heard it down the hall, and it only served to enrage him even more.
**********
Press got to the park a few hours later, pulling himself out of the car, and stalking towards the entrance with a grocery bag clutched in his hand. He passed through the throng of people without so much as a word, and started for the Xayarena the minute his pass was cleared by the admissions staff. When he arrived, he thrust the double door open with authority, and continued his march towards one of the soundproof rooms that had been set up for promos and interviews. Brandy Irving was stepping out of one of the booths when she saw his approach, and she excitedly barked something back into the room, and then started towards him.
“Hi, Mr. Press, I have a room all set up for us, all you have to do is…” He walked right past her, not even sparing a glance, and stepped into the room, slamming the door behind him. What could only be a cat’s wail erupted in the hall behind the door, and Brandy’s heels could be heard clicking off the linoleum as she repeated ‘Sam’ over and over.
Frank, who was munching on some Corn Nuts, stared up from his camera station with a mixture of shock and fear as the big man whirled around in front of the camera, and dropped his grocery bag on the desk. One measured look from the mastodon told Frank to keep quiet, and turn on the cameras. When the red light started blinking, Press stared directly into the camera.
“Forgive me for constantly repeating myself, PAW Universe, but WHAT. THE. FUCK?”
Frank withered from the bellowing voice even though he knew it wasn’t directed at him, while Press took a deep breath, and let it out slowly to calm himself.
“So Genesis Hendrix gets a case of cold feet, and bails on our promotion. She bails on me, and what could have been a pretty decent match, if not a little one sided. But the biggest thing, the one thing I can’t seem to get my head around, is that she bailed on her opportunity for greatness. She bailed on the PAW Championship Tournament. She spent two months crowing about respect and redemption, and how she was going to do this and that, and at the end of the day all she accomplished was to show us that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well here’s to you, Genesis Hendrix. You’re a god damn peach!”
Press reaches into the grocery bag and produces a Bud Light 40oz., pops the top, holds it up for the camera in a salute, and then proceeds to drain about a third before slamming it down onto the table. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve before continuing.
“Next, I guess we have to talk about the elephant in the room. NO, SWANSON, I”LL GET TO YOU IN A MINUTE!”
He seethes at the mere mention of the name, and takes another quick swig before addressing the camera again.
“So somebody commandeered the audio booth at WICKED#3, and plays some prerecorded gibberish that paints the company and its owners in a pretty scandalous light. Now, normally, I wouldn’t give a crap. Wouldn’t even think twice about it. Except for when the powers that be investigated said audio booth, they found the attendant bound and gagged with a sign around his neck that implies that this snafu was courtesy of The BombTrax. Well, let me say it here, in front of God and everybody, that like Shaggy used to sing, ‘It wasn’t me’.”
Press smirks, but whatever has him so keyed up is still evident in his eyes.
“Not on the counter, not on the sofa, not in the shower, not even on camera. It wasn’t me. And as far as the marks on my shoulder, well that’s due to Luke Knux, who put up a pretty good fight for a guy who didn’t know he was already dead. At the end of the day, you guys can speculate all you want, you can come at us with all the accusations, but my stories the same, and will remain the same. It wasn’t me. Now, onto more urgent matters.”
Press reached into his grocery bag, and moved two items onto the table, discarding the bag into the trash. One was a can of biscuits with the Hungry Jack logo posted on the front, and the other was a bag of frozen green beans with Swanson proudly displayed across the top. He arranged the two items side by side, folding the package of green beans to where the only thing visible was the Swanson logo. He then looked back up at the camera in disgust, and waved his hand at the items before him.
“Make sure to get a close up of this shit.” He remarked, before crossing his arms over his chest. “Really, Jack? Really? What? Was ‘Sunbeam’ Keebler Del Monte already taken? What about ‘Birdseye’ Dorito Nestle? Hey, I can do this shit too, cause February 18th, at WICKED#4, it doesn’t matter what you call yourself, cause I’m going to turn your ass into Cream of Wheat! You see, I’m getting better at it the longer this promo goes. I must be a god damn genius!”
Press can’t even force a smirk, as he leans forward to slam his fists into the table.
“You see, Jack, I don’t have an incredible amount of patience for people who come into my business and see it as some sort of joke. Sure, there’s room for humor, my tag partner has built a living on it, but he’s also spent countless hours in the gym, in the dojo, and in the ring. Now here comes a guy that no one’s ever heard of outside of ‘competitive eating’…” Press’ face scrunched up as if just by saying it out loud was painful, which made it seem even more ridiculous. “No training, no experience, and he’s going to sell me on the fact that he’s a serious contender inside the ring? All because he’s a big guy? Well, twinkle toes, if you happen to get the chance to go to the PAW website and check my stats, you’ll notice that I ain’t a cruiser weight myself.”
“Wait!” Press exclaims, a smile reaching his lips for the first time since he’d left Youth behind in the apartment. “Was that your gamble? That you’d be the only fat bastard around these parts that could waddle to the ring and smother his opponent? Well, kid, I hate to burst your bubble, but the only thing you’ll be eating at WICKED#4 is my boot, when I shove it straight down your fucking throat.”
Press settled back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest once more.
“Here’s the thing I need for you to remember, Jack. I don’t want you to take away from this promo that I’m not taking you seriously. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. Despite how ridiculous I may think your gimmick is, you’re still my opponent in this tournament, and I still have to get past you in order to advance. So I want to assure you, from the moment I found out about this, you’ve been the center of my attention. Sort of like Luke Knux was last week, and we all saw what happened to him.”
“You might have it in your mind that because of your size that you’re immovable, or maybe because of your competitive nature that you’ll be fine in this line of work, but I’m here to tell you, that none of that matters now. When you step into the ring with me, you’re stepping in there with someone who doesn’t just want to be the first Pure Champion, but needs to be.”
“For too damn long The BombTrax sat on the sidelines of this industry, watching lesser individuals take their claim to fame, and rake in all the money. Your Cross Recoba’s, your Alex Cross’, your Johnny Raikes’. You want to talk about someone that’s hungry? You want to talk to someone who wants to devour every single one of these pieces of shit in this tournament? You’re looking at him. Because I don’t just have a desire for gold, Jack, I have a need to prove to every one of them that the only reason their standing where they are, is because Youth and I allowed it. But that time, is over. Cause here we are.”
Press reaches down and scoops up the can of Hungry Jack biscuits in his hand, holds it up, and then lets it fall back to the table. The can explodes, buttermilk dough oozing out the sides. Press looks back to the camera and grins.
“Unfortunately, Jack, you’re the sad fuck in my way this week, and that, “ he pauses, indicating the busted canister, “Is how easy it’s going to be to put you away. I hope you're fucking hungry.”
With nothing left to say, Press grabs his forty off the table, and strides off camera for the door. The Scene fades to black.
