Post by Press1269 on Mar 13, 2016 19:42:03 GMT
He slipped out of the car and grabbed his hoodie, paused, and then threw the article of clothing back into the car after realizing he wouldn’t need it. It was a bright sunshiny day, an oddity for this time of year. Usually, in February, the bitter sting of winter’s chill was still in full effect, yet lately everything had been set off course by global warming, and this winter had been particularly warm. That fact had been very good for business, considering that the park officially opened in January.
He mused at that thought for a moment as he made ready his backstage pass for the gate, thinking that it had only been a short five months since The BombTrax had made a full time return to wrestling. It felt a lot longer than that. For that matter, PAW felt more established than it really was, or at least it had, until the past couple of weeks. Between Unreal and Sam Xayachack’s disappearances, the post-match antics of Stevie Harris, and Munin’s ever expanding schedule due to the fall out, the company was showing now just how ‘new’ it really was.
However, that didn’t worry him very much. He had seen companies fold under less pressure, and seen promotions bounce back from what, at the time, looked like a fatal blow. It was all just a part of the wonderful wacky world of professional wrestling. So was losing, but the bitter sting of that seemed to linger around the competitor’s mind, usually far past the fan’s memories. They would move on, continue to cheer or boo their favorite competitors, buy their merchandise and follow their matches.
But for the wrestler, a loss did one of two things. It either acted as a wakeup call, a fire lit under your ass to step it up, or it acted as a sign that something wasn’t working, often sending the recipient into a downward spiral that sometimes ended with more losses, or worse, a separation from the company. He already knew that he wasn’t either one of those. Fifteen years in the business, he had suffered plenty of losses, some more tragic than others. Hell, his entire rookie career was comprised of a series of losses that eventually led to his being partnered with Press in the first place.
No, it wasn’t the loss that bothered him. He knew that, but didn’t dare tell Press, as it would force him to explain what was really on his mind. If that ever happened, it would probably really hurt the big man, and he wanted to avoid that at all cost. After all, it wasn’t really Press’ fault to begin with.
Youth knew how most of the locker room felt about him. He even got the feeling at times that the management and staff shared the sentiment. But the worst part, was seeing it etched in the faces of the fans at ringside, as he pulled himself up off the mat after his defeat. He didn’t give a shit what anyone said, Face, Heel, it didn’t matter, if you were in this business, then you cared about what those fans thought. They were your bread and butter. They were the reason you were called into this line of work. Sure, there might have been other circumstances, but if you couldn’t connect with them, then there was really no reason for a promotion to keep you around. You were dead weight.
Youth had always connected with the fans. Some might even call him a favorite. But that night he looked up and he saw it, clear as day, the correlation of what he already knew and what was now bothering him.
He was the weak link in The BombTrax.
Press came out against Hungry Jack and did exactly what he said he was going to do. He put his boot down the other guy’s throat, and walked away the victor. He advanced. When it came time for Youth to do the same thing, one measly, tiny, insignificant, little second turned the tables in favor of Alex Cross. But that was just the thing, there’s nothing insignificant about that second at all. It’s the difference between drowning and breathing. Living and dying.
And on that night, in that second, Flaming Youth had died, and Jason Douglas Stephens was left standing in the ring, realizing that he couldn’t deliver, but his partner could. It was just further proof for everyone who had ever doubted him, another bullet in the arsenal they would use to cut his entire career to ribbons. After all, without Press, who the fuck was Flaming Youth? Just a punk kid from Raleigh, North Carolina, who got injured on the football field, and couldn’t come up with anything better to do. Too stupid for college, too small for the sport, and not talented enough to make it on his own steam.
Youth walked aimlessly through the park, these thoughts tumbling through his mind. There were other things he knew, things he would tap into later, when the time came, that would make most of this self-pity erase. But for now, he was content to wallow for a while. Besides, Press did it all the time, and that fat fuck didn’t have a monopoly on pity parties.
“Youth! Jason!”
He stopped, looking around the sparsely populated avenue for the familiar voice. He turned around just in time to catch sight of Abigail running up to him, dressed in her plantation uniform, the only article of clothing he had ever seen her in. Her full bosom expanded and collapsed rapidly when she reached him, and there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. She smiled sweetly, and it reminded him of the last time he had seen her, two weeks ago on Fat Tuesday.
*****FAT TUESDAY*****
Youth and Abigail wandered the park arm in arm, wading through the throng of people dressed in masquerade masks and carrying a fistful of beads. A nearly naked woman, her top fully exposed, rushed past the two screaming as two of her friends chased her with water guns, who in turn, were being chased by security. Abigail’s eyes were as round as saucers as she watched on in amazement, claiming that never in her life had she seen anything like it.
The throng of people filling the streets writhed and moved like a serpent after a large meal, slowly slithering through the avenues at a leisurely pace. At certain points during their stroll, they were detoured or full on stopped, a gob of human mass blocking their way. Vendors and park attendants weaved through the customers, peddling anything from t-shirts, beads, bottles of water, stuffed animals. You name it, they had it, along with a pouch full of cash indicating how much fun everyone was having. They had to veer off their coarse altogether when the parade began around 10 p.m., a grand affair involving floats, dancers, and marching bands.
Abigail clutched at Youth’s arm, her cheek at times resting on his shoulder, and they talked privately into one another’s ears about the sights, sounds, and smells they were assaulted with. Finally, Abigail reached up into his ear and asked if he would take her to the old plantation house. Not the haunted attraction that had been built, but the real one. Seeing no harm in it, and wanting some alone time with the caramel beauty, he led them past the crowded streets to a more secluded area of the park that would take them to the centuries old homestead.
As they climbed the hill that took them to the old house, Youth noticed the craftsmanship for the very first time. It was solid white, with green shudders, and a green tile roof. The porch wrapped all the way around the front section of the house, and a second story balcony that did the same was supported by several roman style pillars. Victorian molding decorated the eaves of the porch and balcony, a throwback to a time when woodworking was still a hand crafted art form rather than a process referred to a lay machine.
When they reached the steps, Abigail didn’t hesitate before heading up onto the porch, leaving Youth at the foot to watch her as she navigated to peer through the front windows. She was inspecting the house as if she knew it intimately, but he didn’t dare question her about it for fear of ending the evening early.
So instead, he climbed the steps to the porch, and then checked the front door. Much to his surprise the door was unlocked, and he turned the handle, pushing the door in and stepping aside so that she could enter. She tentatively took his offer, her hand stroking the wood frame lovingly as she passed over the threshold. He followed her inside, and was shocked to find that much of the furniture within matched the time period of the house. He had heard that Sam & Munin had turned the house into an office of sorts, using the basement and cellar for storage.
Abigail continued further into the confines of the house, her head tilting back and forth to take in the different rooms. She stepped over to the grand staircase, and slowly began to ascend.
“Maybe we should just stay down here. I don’t think we’re actually supposed to be in here.” He said, a sudden sense of responsibility coming over him.
Abigail simply looked over her shoulder to him as if she had forgotten he was there, flashing him a comforting smile, but continuing her procession up the stairs. Youth sighed, shook his head, but followed.
At the top of the stairs she paused, looking in one direction, then the other, before finally deciding to go right. He followed her down the hall to a large set of double doors, intricately carved, with bronze handles. She reached out, taking the handles in both hands, and twisted while at the same time pushing them open. When the doors were completely cleared, they revealed the contents to be a large master bedroom, complete with one of the large canopy beds from the period.
Youth whistled as he entered the spacious room, antique furniture adorning the area on each wall, except for the one with the two large windows, and the French stained glass doors that led out to the balcony. He stepped up to the windows and stared out at a great view of the park, matter of fact, the very same view that had been printed on the postcard they had received from Munin back in December telling them about the place. The photographer who captured the picture most have been up here on the balcony in order to take the shot.
He didn’t bask in the view for long, as he felt Abigail’s firm breasts press against his back, and her arms snake around his waist from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and he could feel her soft scented hair grazing the side of his neck and cheek.
“Thank you, for this.” She said, in a gentle, but husky voice.
Her breath on his ear sent a shiver through his entire body, and he could feel heat flashing into all corners of his body. He turned his head slightly to the side to catch a glimpse of her, and when their eyes met, she pushed further against him and their lips met.
The kiss was soft at first, wet and warm, sweet in its way, but soon it intensified, passion flowing from both individuals into one another. Youth spun from the window reaching Abigail’s back to pull her closer, and her arms came up to rest around his neck, her hands plunging into his hair. They stumbled backwards in this embrace until reaching the oversized bed, and falling forward to land upon its soft surface. She rolled, throwing him on his back, and straddled his waist, mouths still connected. They broke in their kisses just long enough to hastily remove, sometimes rip, articles of clothing from one another’s bodies, exposing their mismatching skin tones.
When both of them were finally nude, Youth leaned up, lacing both of his hands under Abigail’s buttocks, and stood up with the woman in tow. She laughed her tinkling laugh as she was lifted up, and he turned, tossing her back to the bed so that he could look at her. Everything about her was perfect he thought, her tone legs, curvy hips, nice full breasts with Hershey kiss nipples. She smiled up at him with devious intent, and it was more than he could take, so he pounced on her to more of her laughter.
Just as he positioned himself to go ‘all the way’, blasts could be heard going off overhead from the direction of the park. He turned to look over his shoulder, and saw fireworks blasting in the distance, filling the room in hues of orange, blue, green, and gold. Her small hand reached up and hooked him by the chin, pulling his face back around to focus back on her. She smiled, and his heart ached at the sight of it, reaching down to kiss her before continuing what they had started.
**********
Youth had awoken the next morning in the large canopy bed, but Abigail was nowhere to be found. After a quick search of the house he had made his way to The Crossroads, where he had told his partner he would meet him. He had expected Press to be angry at being nearly seven hours late, but found that apparently the big man had had his own Fat Tuesday adventure, albeit with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He had been back to the park a few times since that night, but hadn’t been able to find Abigail, until today.
“Have you heard the news?” She asked excitedly.
“What news?” Youth asked, his eyebrows arching.
“They are buying some of the original items from the plantation from a museum downtown in New Orleans. Isn’t that good news?”
Youth’s look of disappointment didn’t match his response. “Yeah, sure. That’s great.”
She paused in her excitement for a moment, and regarded the young man through new eyes. Her previous tone turned somber, and she reached out to take both his hands in hers. When their eyes met, hers were full of concern and sincerity.
“Jason, what’s wrong?” She asked earnestly.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I haven’t seen you since….well…you know. It’s been two weeks!” He stated, a little more accusingly than he had intended.
Abigail nodded, real remorse etched on her face. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve just been really busy, and…” She searched for something more, but upon being able to find it, she just left it at that.
“Where did you go that night?”
“I had to get home. I couldn’t be seen there.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t be seen there?” He asked, afraid he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“I just couldn’t.” She claimed without further explanation, her eyes turning towards the ground.
“Abigail, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’d sort of like to know if what happened meant anything to you, or was that just a onetime thing?”
Her eyes darted up as if he had just struck her, and her hands released their hold on his so that she could bring them up to cover her chest. “Is that what you think of me?” She asked, obvious pain emitting from her voice.
Youth’s resolve melted, all questions cast aside, and he reached out to take her by the shoulders reassuringly. “No, Abigail, that’s not what I mea….”
She cut off his response. “That’s it, isn’t it? I knew you weren’t any different. I’m just some darkie whore for you to rut on and then cast aside whenever you’re done. I’m a fool to have trusted you.”
She barked the last line, and Youth through his hands out at his sides in exasperation. “I don’t understand you, Abigail! I never said that! Those are your words, not mine, and I’m about tired of that happening every time we have a conversation.”
He had more to say, but she didn’t allow him to. “Well dat’s simple enuff den! We won’t have no more conversation!”
Her creole accent echoed off the walls of the street, as she spun on her heel, and stalked away, leaving Youth standing there speechless. He admittedly didn’t know a lot about women and their inner workings other than that they were nice to look at, and fun to play with. He couldn’t tell you how many times he had went home with a ring rat or a bar fly throughout his life, never to see them again unless by accident. He realized now, as the weight of what had just happened began to sink in, that it probably didn’t feel any better for those women as it did for him.
He stood there for a few more minutes watching the alley that she had ultimately disappeared into, and finally shook his head, making his way back towards the entrance to the park. Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t see Press exiting the Xayarena with a look of determination on his face. The big man paused, looked around for a minute, and then disappeared down a side alley between the House of Fun and the Rock N’ Rollercoaster. This struck him as odd, so he moseyed on over to the edge of the House of Fun, and leaned against the brick in wait.
It was a few minutes before Press finally came back around the corner, a look of surprise upon spying his friend waiting for him. He looked a little disheveled, but quickly regained his composure, before joining his friend in the walk back towards the parking lot.
“So, what was that all about?” Youth asked.
“Just needed a minute. Why?” Press remarked a little too quickly.
“No reason.” Youth replied, deciding he had enough to worry about without trying to get into the psychology of his partner. That would take a lifetime in its own right.
“So, did you enjoy your walk? See that girl you’ve been obsessed with?” Press asked, changing the subject with a coy grin.
“Yeah, I saw her.” Youth answered, shaking his head. “I think she might be crazy.”
“They all are kid. They all are.” Press chuckled, slapping Youth on the back playfully. Youth shrugged the slap off, but couldn’t hide the hint of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. He could give Abigail credit for this much at least. She had taken his mind completely off of his loss to Alex Cross.
*****LATER THAT WEEK*****
Youth sauntered into the production department of the Xayarena, and spied Frank, the cameraman, setting up some equipment in one of the interview rooms. He made his way to the door, peeked in, and with no Brandy Irving in sight, slipped in and shut the door behind him. Frank looked up to see who was there, and upon seeing Youth, rolled his eyes, but nodded a greeting. Youth pointed to the microphone, and once again Frank nodded, moving to man the camera as the high flyer moved up front to speak. When the red light started blinking, Frank gave him the thumbs up.
“Well, that’s that. What more can I say? Alex Cross knocked me out of the tournament, in what I think many would say was an upset. I mean, I know Alex Cross probably doesn’t see it that way, as Alex Cross thinks that he’s the best thing since Deadpool was announced ‘Rated R’, but that’s the way I see it. I don’t guess it really matters now, though, seeing as he’s moving on to face the looney tune, and I’m set to join Johnny Raike in what can only be described as a clusterfuck.”
Youth grins at the same time that he shakes his head.
“Listen, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. After all, who wouldn’t want to earn a chance to be in a featured #1 Contenders Match for the uncrowned PAW Championship on March 17th, at our first ever Super Show event? But seriously, who the fuck is booking this shit?”
Youth looks around the room for some unseen source, but doesn’t find anything, and looks back to the camera. (Don’t even try it this time, you little bastard! THE 4th WALL IS SACRED!)
“You see, Johnny Raike and I, well, we don’t exactly see eye to eye. Not to mention, he and The BombTrax sort of already have a history. A history, no matter how brief, ended with him and his tag partner at the time lying flat on their backs courtesy of a T.N.T. Though, if I recall, I never actually pinned Johnny Raike. No, it was his partner that did the honors that night, but alas, we can’t win them all, eh, Johnny?”
Youth pauses long enough to wink for the camera.
“But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? We fucking lost Johnny. We’re out of the tournament, and someone else, hopefully my oversized partner, is going to be the first PAW Heavyweight Champion EVER! I don’t know about you Johnny, but that burns my ass. I know every dog has it’s day, and you can’t win them all, and any given Sunday, and all that garbage, but it doesn’t change the fact that I wanted that fucking belt so bad that I would have just about given anything to get it.”
Youth seethes in raw emotion, picturing the title in his mind, before addressing the camera again.
“But that’s exactly what this match is to us, Johnny. It’s our chance to stay in the title picture. It’s our second chance to advance. So what there’s going to be a Champion crowned on the same night, this is just our next match in the tournament. It’s what could have happened if you and I had just been able to squeeze by our opponents. Maybe, after WICKED#5, people will say it’s what ‘SHOULD’ have happened. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Johnny! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Youth grinned, holding his hands up to pump the brakes.
“We have four young, nubile, exuberant, rookie offenders we’re going to have to polish off before we can get to that point, so it’s not like we don’t have our hands full. I mean, we’ve got to take on the Irishman, the blonde bombshell, the asshole, and the only guy who’s got a bigger mirror hanging over his bed than you do. Hell, it sounds like a god damn joke from a Judd Apatow film. Well, in that logic, all I gotta say is let’s go ‘Superbad’ on these mofo’s!”
Youth shadow boxes at the camera, and then settles down to continue.
“Damn, I’m not gonna lie, It’s hard coming up with shit to say about four people who up to this point really haven’t done much here in PAW. Now, now, before you get your panties in a bunch and go running off at the mouth about the thousand reasons we should all have heard of you, just keep in mind I don’t mean that as a slight. Number one, many of you, unfortunately, made your debut on a DVD that basically got banned due to the graphic nature of an attack on my tag partner this week. Dang, Johnny. I just thought of something. I sure hope you are ready to compete by this coming show, because it’s going to suck if I have to go out and show this kids up all on my lonesome.”
Youth shakes his head in contemplation, but then regains his focus.
“Anyways, sorry about that guys, almost forgot about you.”
Beaming grin.
“Number two, there was a lot of crazy shit besides the hangman’s noose last event that sort of overshadowed your contributions to the show. Sort of like how Hungry Jack’s stomach probably overshadows his penis. I can only imagine that his dick is like a little Haitian girl in the wake of a Tsunami, all cowering and terrified, just praying that the wall of whatever never comes crashing down. Hrmm….”
Youth reaches up to tap his chin with his finger, inadvertently flipping off the camera. He looks off shot for a second to speak to Frank. “Do you think it’s too soon to make a Haitian Tsunami joke, or are we past that?”
“I don’t think it’s ever appropriate to make a joke like that.” Someone says off camera. (It’s Frank. ;D)
Youth rolls his eyes, and waves the unseen person off. “Whatever, Frank. That’s just ridiculous. There’s a set amount of time for everything, I just don’t know what that time frame is. Somebody should write a book on it or something. Hey, there’s an idea for marketing. ‘Flaming Youth presents the Timetables for Saying Fucked Up Shit’."
The grin makes a reappearance.
“Damn, I did it again. I apologize. Let me get back to the point. Maybe this would go easier if I just ran down the list and tried saying something about each of you individually. Let’s start with C.J. O’Donnell, the Irishman. I could lie to you and say that I’ve never heard of you, but truth be told, your Unstable moniker precedes you. Believe it or not, Four Corner’s Wrestling isn’t lost on us Louisiana backwater hillbillies. Not for those of us who have satellite, anyways. You say that you want outside of your comfort zone, that you want a chance to prove yourself. You even said you need redemption. So your big plan, all along, was to leave 4CW for PAW in order to regain some sort of status you believe in your deluded mind you once had, and then what? Leave us in the dust for greener pastures.”
Youth smirked, shaking his head at the futility.
“It’s a sad day, Irishman, when a man finds himself not good enough for the big leagues only to come to the minor leagues, where he thinks he’s going to excel, only to get buried once again. And make no mistake, C.J., that’s exactly what’s going to happen if our paths have to cross too often in this match. I’ll take whatever’s left after the Unstable life you’ve been living, and sink it so far down that no amount of shillelagh waving is going to help you find it again.”
Youth waved the thought away as if it were stinky garbage.
“That leads me to your partner, Trixie. Now she looks like the kind of girl you could take home to mom, if mom was a pimp named Shawn. Why, Shawn, you ask? Cause Shawn runs the lower east side docks in New Orleans, and he’s a smooth talking motherfucker who loves the ladies. Cheap plug for my boy Shawn!”
Youth fist bumps the camera, jostling it, much to the dismay of Frank.
“Oh, Trixie, what does one even say to you. I mean, just when we got rid of Tapanga Britt, you show up to replace her. I’m pretty sure it’s gimmicks like yours that have set women’s rights back like fifty years. Hey, look at me, I’m gorgeous. Fo’ Sho! I’ve got such pretty blonde hair, and I’m awesome. Fo’ Sho! I fucked half the roster cause I slipped, tripped, and fell on their cocks. Fo’ Sho! You know, those of us who have been in the wrestling business actually have a name for chicks like you. We call them ring rats. I think you can decipher from that what they are all about.”
Youth winks for the camera.
“Next up, is Calvin Harris. Jesus, how are we going to keep up with all the Harris’ around here? Did Stevie have a fucking family reunion recently, and just invite all his gangly eyed cousins down for a jamboree? I imagine that clan is something like the Seven Dwarves from Snow White, where Stevie is Crazy Dwarf, and that would make Calvin, Asshole Dwarf. I’m just kidding you, man. I know you and Stevie aren’t related. Well, I don’t really know, but I wouldn’t think so. Two totally different styles.”
“Where Stevie goes on and on about what fucked up thing he’s going to pull out of his bag of tricks, you spend all of your time going on and on about ‘Dark clouds’, ‘Martyrs’, and how the wrestling business is a shrine that should be respected and loved. Oh, you even did one of those clever lines, where you bitch and whine about being put in a dark match, followed by, ‘it doesn’t really bother me’, when it’s pretty obvious that five minute spiel wasn’t because you were happy about it. Though, I sort of want to call gimmick infringement. I did the same thing in my last promo against Alex Cross, and like a complete asshole he spent half his on-air time covering every fucking bullet point.”
Youth holds up his hand, and waves the thought off.
“But I digress, back to Calvin. He says he’s a man of his word, all Joker style, and shit. Ooooooo. You might think this freak show isn’t your bag, but trust me kid, you’ll fit right in.”
The infamous grin returns.
“Last, but not least, we have Tyler Keenan. Man, I used to think Johnny Raike loved the sound of his own voice, but you might just take the cake. Never fear, Johnny, I have an answer to this particular problem. Every time Tyler Keenan looks like he’s about to mount some offense, I’ll just pull out a mirror and it should halt all action. For fucks sake, now that I think about it, that will take out at least three people in this fucking match, one being my own tag team partner. Well, Johnny, that’s out of the question. I guess we’re just going to have to beat this pretty bastard the old fashioned way.”
Youth leans in conspiratorially.
“With a little Slow Burn and a lot of Full Frontal. (Whispers) We can call that finisher Herpes. (Wink) Think about it.”
Youth throws his head back and cackles as he makes his way around the desk, and towards the door. It only illustrates that Stevie Harris doesn’t hold the only title for crazy in Pure Amusement. Fade to black.
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