Post by Press1269 on Mar 13, 2016 19:51:27 GMT
Press arrived at the park at around 2:30 PM, and was a little shocked to see the turn out. The park was usually busy on the weekends, but it wasn’t what you would call packed out. This, however, was full capacity. Hundreds of people milled around, either just arriving, or stepping out to their cars for a late lunch they had packed for the trip. As he thundered past the rows and rows of numbered parking areas, he realized that he might not be able to find a place in his usual spot, right outside of The Crossroads, to park the Pontiac. He smiled inwardly. It was nice to see Munin’s property turning a profit.
When he arrived at the site entrance, and took his usual left into the area outside of The Crossroads, he saw a few cones had been put out in spaces close to the door with signs sticking up out of them with different wrestler’s names on them. When he found ‘The BombTrax’, he swiftly hopped out of the car, moved the cone back a safe distance, and then returned to pull the car into the parking spot.
Before he could even get out of the vehicle, a man and a woman, both wearing Pure Amusement Park T-shirts, were making a B-line for his location. They intercepted him as he made his first few steps towards the building, the man seeming shy, while the woman was bubbling over with excitement.
Before even speaking, she thrust her park brochure out to him along with a pen, and smiled from ear to ear.
“Would you please sign this for me? Oh my God, you have no idea what a big fan we are. You’re even larger in real life, and even sexier.”
Press’ eyebrows shot up in surprise, reaching out and taking the woman’s pen and signing the document. He wasn’t exactly accustomed to this sort of attention, and it had been a damn long time since anyone used the word ‘sexy’ to describe him. He suddenly wished that Youth were here. He was the type that soaked in this kind of thing, ever willing to cater to fan service when time allowed.
But no, his partner had opted to stay home for the third time in a row, and if Press hadn’t been sure something was wrong with him before, he was definitely sure of it now. Youth had been acting strange, to say the least. He had been spending a lot of time to himself, either in his room or going out on his own and staying gone for long periods of time. His usual jovial nature had changed to one more morose and brooding, like a teenager on the long hard road of puberty. The biggest tell that something was wrong, however, was his lack of interest in anything to do with wrestling.
Youth was the researcher of the group. He was prone to staying up late googling opponents and roster members, watching endless hours of tapes and footage, and casing any new prospective talent that might make a good fit in the promotion. He also enjoyed watching promos, both current and past, looking for ways to use other people’s words to his advantage. Out of the entire locker room, Press knew that Youth was the one guy who stayed up to date on everything going on inside of the company. Even the things that weren’t on camera he would make guesses at, and at times, would even be proven correct.
Yet for the past couple of weeks, he hadn’t paid the PAW website any attention. He just sat around in his house robe, eating huge bowls of cereal, and watching ‘The Office’ on Netflix. The suggestion of going out, even just for a few drinks, seemed to make him irritated, and so Press hadn’t pushed the issue much. He figured his pal just needed some time to himself, and everything would work itself out. But the longer this went on, the worse for business it was going to be, and considering it was Youth’s idea to get this heavily involved in the wrestling industry again, Press wasn’t sure he could allow this sloppy behavior to continue.
Press finished up with the two fans that had stopped him, even posing for a selfie with the enamored woman before making his way towards the front entrance of The Crossroads. Much to his surprise, he was stopped three more times before ever making it onto the curb, and he was pretty sure something strange was going on around here.
By the time he finally reached the front door, he spied one of the posters for the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show hanging off to the side of the building. He stepped over to it for a moment, the feeling that something was different about the advertisement. He had seen the poster several times on his previous trips to the park, the pose of Stevie Harris and himself standing on either side of a blown up image of the PAW Championship, the words ‘Main Event: Finals of the PAW Championship Tournament’ emblazoned just below the picture. Then there was the usual stuff, the other matches in smaller lettering, the date and time of the event, and the place.
Then it struck him. He looked to the spot that marked the place of the event, the Xayarena, and followed along the same line where ticket information should be, but instead, had been replaced by ‘Sold Out’. Just below that had been attached a cut piece of poster board that read, ‘A live feed of the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show will be held at the Pure Amusement Park Amphitheater. Tickets on sale now.’
Pure Amusement Wrestling was a fledgling company in almost every regards. They had gathered together several competent wrestlers from varying backgrounds. You had people like Alex Cross and Johnny Raike, who had national exposure, and were still relevant in those circles. Then you had the younger, but just as recognizable, new generation, like Stevie Harris, CJ O’Donnell, Calvin Harris, Luke Knux, and Johnny Sykes. Sprinkled in for fun were the homegrown originals that mostly got their start right here in PAW, like Trixie, Jack Swanson, Kip Calhoun, Lola, and Jamie Wheeler. All you needed were a couple of old farts that brought nostalgia and history to round everything else out, and thus, that was the role of The BombTrax.
But at the end of the day, no matter how top shelf their talent was, and how popular they seemed to be in the underground market, PAW was no national promotion. They were a territory at best, covering thus far only Louisiana. They didn’t even have enough steam to draw television, depending mostly on the power of the internet and DVD sales to drive their revenue from event to event.
So seeing, not only had the show been sold out, but that they were selling extra tickets to simply view the event live from a giant monitor came as a bit of a shock. Sure, the announce team said they were sold out on every DVD, but that was what they were paid to do. Through the power of suggestion, and really tight camera angles, even a little CGI editing, the production team took great pains in making each PAW show appear to be a packed capacity crowd.
But this, well…this was different. The Xayarena had a 5,000 seat capacity, and the amphitheater could hold 2,000 more. According to the marquis he was staring at, WICKED #6 really was appropriately named a Super Show, because it was going to be the largest crowd any of them had ever performed for since the promotions inception.
Press felt a feeling of excitement sweep over him, replacing his confusion with a newfound determination. With a confident gait in his step, he pushed open the door to The Crossroads and entered. The minute he was through the portal he was overwhelmed with the amount of people in his usual haunt. It seemed that every head in the place was on a swivel, and collectively the patrons turned to face the big man as he stood dumbfounded in the doorway.
Several of the patrons took the off guard demeanor as an invitation, and they jumped from their seats to crowd around him. Press, not the best diplomat, answered questions, signed autographs, and took pictures, all while slowly, but surely, edging his way towards the bar. He caught sight of Samedi leaning against the counter, his skeletal grin being beamed in his direction. The big man scowled in return, before being pulled back into the fray of the praising fans.
After about forty-five minutes of this, Press finally made it to the bar, and after taking a stool, simply stared at the Cajun while shaking his head in disbelief.
“What the fuck is going on around here?”
Samedi’s grin beamed at him again, already pulling the tap back on Press’ favorite beer.
“Have you not heard? Our mutual Lady friend made some strong waves a few days ago.”
Press’ brow arched inquisitively, and bid Samedi to be out with it by twirling his finger in clockwise direction. Sam sat the beer down in front of Press, a little foam dribbling down the side of the ice cold glass, and leaned in to make the conversation private.
“You really should pay more attention to the sport in which you ply your trade, my friend.”
This only got a grunt from the big man, and a stare that said if the Cajun didn’t make some sense soon, he was in danger of a bar fight. This only made Sam smile wider, if that were even possible, but he nodded his head to signify he was done making fun.
“Well, Lady Munin made an announcement a few days ago on GZW broadcasting. Essentially, she left the company, but not before calling the entire roster cowards, including the people in the front office. What made things really interesting was that she refused to give back her titles, and told the entire world that if they wanted to try and take them, then they could come down to Purity where she would be devoting her time to a real wrestling promotion.”
Press stared at Sam in shock. “And she said this on national television?”
Sam shrugged, the event not much of a surprise to the wily voodoo priest. “More or less.”
“Well, how did GZW react?” Press asked, still swimming in the tide of uncertainty.
“How would you react? I figure there will be future ramifications from that little outburst. If not physically, then legally. For now, however, all’s quiet on the western front.” Sam said with a smile, then nodded to the crowd of people that have filled up his bar. “That is, except for them. In one swift move, Lady Munin has put Purity on the map, and along with it, Pure Amusement Wrestling. Regardless of the consequences, this cannot be undone.”
“Which is precisely why she did it.” Press replied, a smirk forming over his face. “She’s a cagey one, that’s for sure.”
Samedi stared at Press with what could only be described as a serious tone. “You have no idea, my friend. Munin is one of the most loyal people I have ever met, but at her core is a demon that I no longer believe that even she understands. It is ruthless, calculating, and malicious. Capable of creating chaos, and feeding from it. This was a good move, a smart move, but a move that in the end will probably cost her despite the obvious gains to her promotion. Only time will answer the most important question of all. Was it the right move?”
Press nodded in understanding, realizing that the Cajun, no matter how cryptic, was warning him of the dangers that could accompany this plan. A plan, that none of the rest of PAW had any say in.
He shook his head, and looked up at Sam from under his brow. “You know, Priest, you’re a God damn buzz kill.”
Samedi chuckled softly, wiping the counter absent mindedly with his bar towel. “I just try to offer all perspectives, Redeemer.”
Press smirked, taking another sip of his beer, watching the customers talk amongst themselves. Every once in a while he could see camera flashes going off from the balcony, and he looked up to see a few people wave at him just for noticing. He nodded politely, and then turned all the way back around to face the bar. Samedi let out another chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest.
“For someone that has known national exposure in their career, you seem rather adverse to it now. Was it so long ago that you don’t remember how to appreciate the limelight?”
Press noted the playful nature that the Cajun’s tone implied, and he shook his head in irritation when he finally answered. “It’s not so much that, as it is that Youth usually handles the PR end of The BombTrax.”
Sam paused, a quizzical expression crossing h is features. “Where has your high flying partner been of late? I didn’t see him the last two times you were here either. Don’t tell me he’s grown tired of mama’s gumbo!”
The last line was delivered in false indignation, and Press laughed a little around his beer. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Sam. To be honest, I don’t know what’s crawled up his ass. If I were a betting man, I’d say it was girl trouble. He met someone about a month and a half ago here at the park, and it appears to be an off and on again type of thing. Half the time he seems excited, like he can’t wait to get here, and others, he doesn’t want to even visit at all.”
Sam paused in his bar duties, and regarded Press with an even stare. “You say he met a girl at the park? Do you know what she looks like? What her name is?”
“Abigail, I think.” Press answered, not paying that much attention to the look of distress sweeping over Samedi’s face. By the time he looked back over to the Cajun, Sam had gotten himself under control, and attempted to appear normal.
“Why? You know her?” He asked.
Sam hastily took Press’ beer from the counter, wiped underneath it, and poured the last sip into the dump tank. Press sat up straight, agitation clear on his face. “Hey, that had at least another swallow in it! What the hell, Sam?”
“Now, I can’t very good and well send you to your interview for the biggest match of your career full of liquid courage. Don’t you have a championship match to promote? When you’ve completed that, stop by on your way out, and you can have as many of those as you want.”
Press continued to stare at the Cajun with a hard scowl, but eventually relaxed, and pushed back from the bar. “With service like that, I’m surprised you have any customers left.”
“And with an attitude like that, I’m surprised you made it this far in the tournament.” Sam replied.
“Fine, you old bastard, but when I get back, I expect to see a beer on the counter with my name on it.”
Samedi’s skeletal grin returned to his face, and he nodded his head in acquiescence. Press, still a little disgruntled, turned and made his way for the exit into the park. As soon as he was gone Samedi fell back against the counter, no longer able to hide his deep concern. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost, and a sick feeling was marching its way from his intestines into his gut. He quickly made for the telephone at the end of the bar, and hastily dialed the number for an old colleague. He would need her expertise to deal with this new development.
**********
Press had found the production department of the Xayarena pretty much the same way he had left it, and after dodging Brandy Irving and pulling frank into one of the interview rooms, he was ready to talk about his upcoming match. He sat down on the edge of the desk, head hung lower than usual, his long hair cascading down into his face. He had told Frank to leave the lights dim for effect, and now stared through the curls towards the blinking red light that indicated he was a go.
“Most people don’t know a lot about me, especially the fans.” He remarked in a calm, even tone.
“I guess that’s mostly of my doing, trying to keep my personal life as far away from my professional life as possible, but with the rise of reality television and the media taking a tabloid approach to reporting the news, it’s getting harder and harder to do that. I guess I’ve always been lucky as far as gimmicks go, cause I pretty much play the part of myself. Not everyone gets the chance to do that, but what you see of me in the arena, for the most part, is what you’re going to see when I’m out on the street. I appreciate the clever anecdote every once in a while, but I’m too straight forward and matter of fact, so I usually like to leave that to my tag-partner Youth.”
“I’ve been large my entire life. This didn’t just happen overnight, as some might believe. I had the luxury of inheriting some pretty good genes from my family tree, and so I was naturally athletic. As the years grew in number, so did my height and weight, and before too long I was buying clothes at specialty shops to accommodate for my size. When you’re seven foot four, three hundred and sixty-five pounds, of green eyed muscle, a lot of things require accommodation. The type of car I drive. Seats on an airline or train. Hell, even my furniture has to be upgraded in order to sustain my bulk. Luckily, a market sprang up, seemingly overnight, that considers these very factors when licensing their products. They call it plus size.”
“Now, there’s a lot of negative connotations and stereotypes that go along with that term. For instance, because of my size I’ve had employers think that I was lazy, or that I was dumb. My entire life I’ve had people be unnecessarily intimidated of me, and believe me folks, if I want to intimidate you, you’d know it. I’ve even had people give me dirty looks in restaurants and hotels, I guess thinking that this fat bastard is about to eat them out of house and home.”
“And I guess the reason I needed to tell you all that, was to reach this point. No matter where I’ve been, where I go, what I’m doing, I end up being the center of attention. Whether I want it or not is irrelevant, it’s just the way it is. It comes from being different, from standing out from everyone else. Whether it’s perceived as good, or bad, or just fucking odd, let me tell you people, it’s not always all it’s cracked up to be. I’m a man, who literally can’t disappear, and that can be infuriating.”
Press sighs, reaching up to brush his hair back, and to finally look directly at the camera. A nostalgic expression etches itself on his face, and he crosses his arms over his chest.
“And I guess that brings me to my grandparents. I never really knew my father, and my mother was in and out of my life, but by the age of six she had stopped coming around altogether. Yeah, I know, real tragic, but at the end of the day I’m not going to cry you a river over it.”
“My Grandparents were hard working Americana, my grandfather owned his own garage and was a pretty decent mechanic, and my grandmother was a housewife, caregiver, and did a few sewing jobs on the side for extra cash. We lived in a pretty low-rent district of Jacksonville, Florida, so there was plenty of trouble for me to get into as a kid. My grandparents did their best trying to reign me in, and one of the things they did as punishment, was send me to my great-uncle Strut’s farm up in Georgia. Truth be told, those were some of the best summers of my life, and taught me a lot about hard work and discipline. It also taught me about how tough it can be to keep such a fragile ecosystem in order.”
“You see, back in the 1930’s, there was a huge population of White Tailed Deer, and they were ruining many crops before they ever had the chance to reach fruition. With a drought already in place, an economic depression looming on the horizon, and the dustbowl ravaging the Midwest, the government depended heavily on The South to keep the country stocked with food. So in order to counteract this Deer problem, they introduced a foreign species into the environment. The Coyote.”
“Now what they didn’t know, or couldn’t foresee, was how this was going to change the landscape of the Southeast forever. Hell, they didn’t even know if the coyote would survive. Boy, were they wrong. By the 1970’s and 80’s, the coyote population had exploded, not only taking out the deer that they were intended for, but now replacing them as one of the number one nuisances in the area. They killed livestock, bred with domesticated dogs creating large half breed packs, destroyed chicken coops. By the early 90’s coyotes had been sighted in all 156 counties of Georgia. Even today, there are some rural townships that will pay up to ten dollars for every coyote pelt brought to the courthouse.”
“So by the time my grandparents first started sending me to my uncle’s farm, the coyotes were already a pretty big problem. So much so, that when we started our day at 4:30 AM, he required me to stick close to my cousins to ensure my safety.”
“One night, at around 1:30 in the morning, I heard a terrible ruckus coming from out by the barn. Every one of us in the house shot out of bed, down the stairs, and out into the night towards the commotion. When we reached the fence, we could see the yellow eyes staring back at us, the mewling howls that coyote’s make that sound like babies crying from some far off place. They stared at us over the carcass of one of my great-uncle’s cows, snarling and snapping at one another as they took turns feasting.”
“Before any of us could react, Strut appeared behind us, barreling us out of the way and raising his shotgun up to take aim. A shot rang out like thunder, and a loud howl of pain, as one of the coyote’s hit the ground dead where it had stood. The rest took off in chirps and yelps of their own, fleeing into the night. That’s when the cow, that we all thought was dead, began to let out its own gurgled, mutilated, protest. We all stood by and watched as Strut climbed the boards over the fence, gun in tow, and stopped beside the downed beast to inspect her. He grimaced, pointed the gun at her head, and pulled the trigger.”
Press’ face was like stone as the memory washed over him, and he shuddered before continuing.
“My uncle explained to me over breakfast that morning that a big son-of-a-gun had showed up a few months back, and had bred with some of the local dogs. He now led the pack, and had been running the countryside of Sumter ever since, causing all sorts of problems for the local farmers. A few hunts had been organized, but he apparently was a wily bastard, and somehow eluded even the most skilled hunters in the area. But, seeing as this was on his land, he felt the need to get a party up, and at least make the attempt to end this for good. Better yet, he was going to give me a gun, and let me tag along.”
Press smirked.
“If my grandmother had known that was what Strut had in mind, she’d have never let me set foot back on that farm, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. We all went to bed early that evening, waking at around 10:30 PM to get an early start. Strut had hoped that since the kill was still fresh, that maybe the bastards would still be somewhere close by. He organized my cousins in teams of two, and took me on as his partner, more of a way to keep an eye on me, than actually anything that I could bring to the table.”
“We had made a pretty great distance from the farmhouse when my Uncle and I heard that familiar yelping. He told me to hang back, take some cover, and wait for him to return as he followed the sounds of the beasts. My great-uncle Strut was a good man, but he wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed. For all of his wilderness expertise, he had never hunted a pack animal before, so he didn’t know that sometimes they used misdirection in order to separate prey.”
“So as I stood out there all by myself, it came as a great surprise to me when I heard rustling coming up from behind me. I thought that maybe my uncle had circled around, or maybe my cousins had followed the sounds of the coyote’s, but imagine my surprise when I turned around and there he was. That big old nasty demon, the leader of the pack, full blood terror of chicken coops everywhere.”
“His hunkered down approach told me that he had already spotted me, almost as if he had planned the entire hunt himself just to lure me out here. He was bigger than what I expected, the coyotes of the West being diminutive and frail looking. Yet, here he was, plump, healthy, and ready to pounce. Ready to send this city boy back to Jacksonville in pieces.”
“And that’s exactly what I thought as I stood there, frozen in fear. The reason my grandparents sent me out to Georgia in the first place was cause they wanted to teach me a lesson, to force me to fit in better when I came back home. But, just like I didn’t belong there, I didn’t belong here either, and now, I was staring down the jaws of death.”
“The coyote had decided that he had given me more than enough time to carry out my internal dialogue, so he came right at me with speed that I’ve never seen since. In that moment, every ounce of panic I had in me fled, and survival instincts kicked in. I swung the barrel of my shot gun around, and pulled the trigger just as he lunged. The kick from the shotgun knocked me off balance so that when the beast crashed into me, it sent me toppling, flat on my back, with him on top of me.”
“I heard what sounded like someone calling my name somewhere between the ringing in my ears and the yells that were being carried from all different directions. When I finally decided to move, I looked down to find the coyote face down in my stomach, blood covering every inch of him and me. At first I panicked again, not sure if he was dead, or perhaps I was being eaten alive. It took me a full minute after I threw him off of me, and regained my feet, that I was none the worse for wear.”
“My Uncle and cousins all came running up then, and they first looked to the dead coyote, and then up to me. I was still a little shaken, so it helped a lot when they all hooted and hollered my name, my uncle stepping over to me and throwing his arm around my shoulder. We all marched back to the farmhouse, my cousins dragging my kill behind them, while I walked out front. My great-aunt Ruth was almost beside herself when we came straggling in, and she ordered me straight up stairs and into the bath before I caught a case of rabies.”
He shook his head, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He uncrossed his arms, settling back on the desk, and stared straight at the camera again, the smile slipping away into a hard glare.
“Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking. What the hell does this shit have to do with my match against Stevie Harris? Well, it’s real simple. Stevie Harris is the coyote.”
Press paused for a minute to let that sink in, and then trudged on.
“You see, the last time I spoke to you, I was going into a match against Cross Recoba, and man, I hit that right on the money, didn’t I? Cross Recoba threw the gimmick out the window. He threw his pride out the window. Hell, he threw his career out the window. Because just like I told all of you, Cross and I aren’t that different. We were two guys with a prize in mind, and I’ll be damned if we were going to let anyone get in the way of that. We both had focus, will, and determination. So much so that we pushed the envelope on the rulebook, and cut every corner we could think of just to gain one more rung up the ladder. In the end, Cross Recoba fought his heart out, and it was almost good enough. Almost.”
Press sneered.
“Some would guess that Stevie Harris falls in that same analogy, but they’d be wrong. Looking across the ring from Cross was like looking into a mirror. We had an understanding of the things that were about to happen, but Stevie….nah, Stevie has no fucking idea.”
“See, Stevie isn’t a man at all. He’s a beast, just like that coyote. Wily, cunning, vicious. He’s not here cause he wants to be, he’s here cause he has to be. Where else could you get paid to hang other people by the neck? What better outlet to spread whatever poisonous gospel you’re preaching? If you are a man of violence, then you go to where the violent things are. Just like that coyote was brought into cull out the deer, Stevie Harris was brought in to exterminate the weak. Just look at what he did to Genesis Hendrix. To Tapanga Britt. To Johnny Raike. To Alex Cross. Shit, if I was still that kid standing out in the field, I’d stare across at this monster set in front of me, and I’d be just as scared now, as I was back then.”
A look of mock terror seizes Press, but the wicked smile soon returns, his dark orbs burning into the camera.
“But Stevie, I ain’t a fucking kid anymore. Your ilk like to call you a wolf, but you aren’t a predator. You’re just a piss poor excuse of a man whose circumstances created the faux monster that stalks this promotion, and a false prophet who’s baptized himself in his own pool of self-propaganda. Well surround yourself with all the pathetic, weak willed, souls you want, cause come St. Patrick’s Day, I’m going to snatch your throne right out from under you, and send you back to your coven riding a crucifix.”
“That championship is not going to be the center piece of your church, Stevie, it’s going to be the unraveling of everything you’ve set out to accomplish here in PAW, cause when the dust finally settles, it’s going to be around my fucking waste. What are your followers going to think then, huh? This man, this beast, this coyote, always mulling in the background with the rest of his mutts, breeding a gang made of lesser stock. And why? Cause you know you can’t do it on your own.”
“Just like that coyote, you need to be a part of something. Maybe you weren’t loved enough as a child. Maybe you’re daddy never took you under his wing. Maybe Cousin Jim-Bob Harris took you to the barn and introduced you to alternative lifestyles. Well, as you can see from my story, nobody gives a fuck. So run with your pack while you can, Stevie. Do whatever you gotta do to convince them you’re the next messiah, but you and I both know the truth.”
“You’re no savior. Never was. You’re just a coyote that needs to be put down, and I'm the guy that's been picked to carry the proverbial shot gun.”
Press leans forwards so that the camera is filled with his grim visage.
“Bang, Stevie.”
He grins, as the camera fades to black.
