Post by Press1269 on Jun 7, 2016 6:04:33 GMT
*****A few Days Ago*****
Press sat on the edge of a log he had propped up by the fire he had started. He was somewhere on the South East of the property, just past the fence that separated the Camp Salmen Nature Park from the amusement park grounds. Some of the pine that he had tossed in the fire for its citrus aroma popped, and he leaned back against the tree that he had set his log in front of, resting his hand on the large container that sat beside him.
Off to the side of him, a few feet away, lay a mound of dirt with a shovel stuck inside. The hole that he had dug had been dug once before, and by the decay of the bones he found when he hit his depth mark indicated that the first time had been around 1832. The rough stone that stood as a marker had the name ‘Abigail’ crudely carved onto its smoothest side, and the bones indicated that this was, indeed, a woman.
He had made the decision for Youth that he would be the one to put an end to all this. It seemed only fitting, considering he was the one that had originally put them in this predicament in the first place. Back in 2006, he had been the one to beg Samedi and Minerva to bring Youth back after he had already passed on. He had thought at the time that it was the right call, and who’s to say it wasn’t, considering the past ten years. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt over the past six months, despite his good intentions at the time.
Unfortunately, that’s life in a nutshell for The BombTrax. The road to hell can be paved in good intentions, and in their line of work, sometimes the dead don’t have the common courtesy to stay in the ground.
His mind drifted, as it often seemed to do these days, to the life that they had built here in New Orleans and PAW. There were a lot of people who would have never pegged The BombTrax to be successful again in the wrestling business. After all, they hadn’t seen the inside of a ring with any clout in around eight years, and even before that, their national exposure and success had been limited. Experience for the sake of experience was on their side, but at the end of the day, their bank account didn’t reflect that. Their mission, as it were, had seen to that.
He frowned at the thought of The Mission. When Youth had told him about Abigail, after the initial shock and angry response, he settled on the fact that this was a sign. A sign that they had become far too relaxed as just two normal wrestlers trying to make a living, and that the universe was telling them to get off their ass, and back into the game. The original point of taking the gig with PAW was to continue to provide funds for the mission, and because of its location.
What better place to fight the forces of the supernatural than one of the most supernatural cities in the continental U.S.? So they packed up, and moved to New Orleans. They signed with PAW. Reconnected with old friends, and even managed to make some new ones. The money began to flow, they got set up in an extremely nice apartment, and pulled off some major upsets and high profile matches.
There would always be naysayers in the sport of Professional Wrestling, but even he had been a little surprised, though he never showed it, with how he had waltzed through the PAW Heavyweight Championship Tournament. One by one his opponents fell at his feet, Luke Knux, Jack Swanson, and Cross Recoba, with the whole thing culminating in a show down with The Madman, Stevie Harris, at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show.
They had tried to kill one another in that match, and Press hadn’t been challenged like that since the old days, back when Johnny Storm was gunning for their heads. But despite the Madman’s best efforts, Press had weathered the storm brought on by the enigmatic cultist, eventually putting him down for a third and final time, with some help from his partner, at WICKED#9. Despite his best efforts, however, it was Johnny Raike who put the final nail in the coffin of Stevie Harris, by alerting the FBI to some of Stevie’s less than savory dealings outside of the ring.
Press smirked at the thought of the Thigh High Thriller. It was sort of hard for you to dislike the guy, even though he was nipping at his heels just as much as anyone since winning the championship. I guess you could call that respect, for lack of a better term. He would like to think with some of their recent backstage conversations, and even their partnership at WICKED#11, that the feeling was mutual. At the end of the day that was for he and Raike to decide, and he couldn’t help but feel that it might be best decided in a squared circle.
Then there was the upstart Calvin Harris, the current Titans of the Midway Champion. He was a smarmy back biting prick who would probably sell his own mother if it meant he got a shot at the title. He had been making waves ever since the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, and had managed to creep his way into the title picture. Press couldn’t deny the little bastards tenacity, however, as he had brought doubt to everyone’s mind when he defeated CJ O’Donnell and Johnny Raike. He and The Most Liberated Man In Wrestling had a date with destiny at Heat Stroke, and that would decide what happened next with the main title picture.
The question was, would Press still be the champion. CJ O’Donnell wasn’t faring so well, but he was no slouch. By his count, despite the false news report on the PAW website, had managed to escape Irish Knowledge, and not cause the Irishman wasn’t trying. His partner, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He was pretty sure that Youth had taken more Irish Knowledge running knee’s than CJ’s opponents as of late, in PAW or 4CW. It was a fact that Youth had tried to pay back in kind with a chair shot upside the back of CJ’s skull, but the Irishman never responded. To be fair, he had a lot of things on his mind, like losing two in a row before a high profile match, or the seven-foot champion that stood across from him in that high profile match.
A cool breeze skipped across Press skin, bringing him back to reality from his thoughts. He looked up, and across the fire, sitting on the mound of dirt, was a beautiful creole woman, with large doe eyes, a heaving bosom, and nice full lips. She was just as Youth had described her, and now in her presence, Press realized more so. It was easy to see why his friend had become so easily enamored, and even more, why it was so hard for him to let go.
She stared at him through the flames for a long moment, the embers sparkling in her eyes. If Press couldn’t see the soft hue that seemed to emanate from all around her, he would have guessed her to be as real as any other woman. But that small difference was enough, not to mention the hairs that were slowly starting to rise on the back of his neck like little pin pricks.
“So you da one dat Jason sent to end my days on dis earth?” She said cooly, in a soft velvet like voice.
Press nudge the coals around in the fire, and then looked up from his broad brow. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Her laughter was like the tinkling of bells and intoxicating, and it was all Press could do from rushing the woman and taking her right there on the mound of dirt. That of coarse meant she had learned some control over her powers, and it left him wondering if she hadn’t used them on Youth to seduce him.
Her laughter came to an abrupt halt, and she stared hard at the big man as he rested his elbows on his knees, using the stick to write sigils in the air with the burning end.
“I didn’t vex him, if that’s wat you think.” She said crossly, placing her arms around herself as if she were cold. “I love him, I truly do. It is unfortunate that fate has played such a wicked game with both our hearts.”
The last was said with some real conviction, and Press nodded, pushing against the tree to help himself up to his feet. He looked over at the forlorn beauty, and thought of how Youth looked before he had left, curled up on the couch in much the same manner. He supposed that she was right. Of all the amusement parks, in all the world, your spirit just had to haunt this one.
He chuckled a bit to himself, and she looked up sharply, being brought out of her melancholy. When she saw that he wasn’t even looking at her, she eased back, realizing he hadn’t made jest at her expense. Finally, Press reached down, taking the canister, and edged around the fire to face the open hole. He checked his watch, and sure enough, it was 11:50 PM. The witching hour was upon them.
“It’s time. Are you ready?” He asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She answered, coming to stand beside him. “Will it hurt?”
He hadn’t been prepared for this question, so he stammered a bit, before finally settling down to contemplate in silence. After a few moments he looked over, and shrugged.
“To be honest, we’ve only ever done this to spirits who weren’t so keen on being sent to the other place, so it seemed like it hurt them. A lot. But because you actually want to be free, and are doing this of your own will, I don’t think you’ll be harmed.”
She nodded, the uncertainty of the answer giving her pause, but eventually she decided that it didn’t matter. Her mind was made up. When she looked up again, Press was staring at her, and she cocked her head to the side in question.
“I know this is a moot point, but because this isn’t being done forcibly, the rules are a little different. I have to ask.”
The tinkling bells of laughter came again, and she remembered the time that she had been asked this once before, ten years ago, hovering over a dead boy in a bar in New Orleans. She nodded her head for him to continue.
Press shook his head, and got on with it. “Are you sure this is what you want? Once we start, we cannot go back.” He stated evenly, doing his duty as the acting priest.
Abigail nodded her consent, and then spoke it. “It is as I will it, Redeemer.”
Press cleared his throat, and then reached down to the canister and its precious contents. It was a mixture of salt and wood chips that had been soaked in ‘Oleum Infirmorum’, olive oil blessed bya Bishop, gasoline, and hydrofluoric acid. The acid would immediately begin working upon the bones, the holy oil would cleanse them, the wood chips and gasoline would act as an accelerant for when he added the fire, and the salt would work as the banishing agent. That is, of course, as long as he got the incantation right.
He dispersed the contents of the container all along the bottom of the grave, covering Abigail’s remains from head to toe. The Acid immediately began fizzling upon the arid bones, and Abigail shuddered. Press only briefly paused to cast her a glance, before reaching down into the fire, and pulling the burning end of a log into the grave.
The flame erupted up into the sky in a ten-foot geyser that quickly dropped down to a low flame that crackled beneath their feet. He closed his eyes, and bowed his head in prayer, and in a low voice began reciting the ‘last rights’ in Latin.
“Our help is in the Name of the Lord.
Who made Heaven and Earth.
O Lord, hear my prayer.
And let my cry come to Thee.
The Lord be with you.
And with thy spirit
Let us pray.
Hear us, holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God: and be pleased to send Thy holy angel from Heaven to guard, cherish, protect, visit and defend all that dwell in this house. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
As the words rolled on through, Press opened his eyes to glance over at Abigail, who stood in the same spot she had been in, but now looked different. The solid form that she had first presented to him no longer held the same shape, and he could see straight through her now, like a spirit. She was glowing, much as she had so many years ago when she helped bring Youth’s soul back to his body, but she appeared to be in no pain. She dutifully kept silent as with each word, she continued to erode from this world into the next.
“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, let there be extinguished in you all power of the devil by the imposition of our hands, and by the invocation of the glorious and holy Mother of God, the Virgin Mary, and of her illustrious Spouse, St. Joseph, and of all the holy Angels, Archangels, Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Martyrs, Confessors, Virgins, and of all the saints together. Amen.”
She was no more than outline now, probably not visible to the naked eye. He could see her though, due to his keen eyes brought on by ‘The Touch’. She turned to him just before fading completely away, and he could barely make out what appeared to be a sweet smile.
“Thank you, Redeemer, and tell Jason that I will always love him.”
Then she was gone.
Press stood there for a minute staring at where the apparition had been, unable to pull his eyes away from it. Her gratitude had struck a chord deep inside of him, almost like an alarm going off on a clock. And what was an alarm, if not a reminder. A reminder of their mission, and how ever since they had come to New Orleans they had become lax. He knew that was about to change, just as he also knew heaven help whatever evil got in their way.
He filled in the grave with the dirt pile he had made, even though there was really no need. The acid and the fire had done their job, and there was nothing left of Abigail on this earth save for the memory she left behind with Youth. He thought of his partner, and wrestled with whether or not to deliver her final message. The one about love. He knew that Youth was already broken up about what had to be done, but would feel even worse if there were anymore last minute declarations.
As he poured the bucket of water he had brought with him over the fire, the smoke pillowed up into his face, and he closed his eyes, letting the last vestiges of heat wash over him. He would tell him. He owed him that much. He deserved the truth. Press opened his eyes, grabbed up the empty canister, and made his way back towards the park.
*****SATURDAY June 4th, 2016 – The Crossroads*****
Youth had taken one day to mourn the loss of Abigail. That was all he was going to allow himself. When he had first found out about it, they had sat out in the woods all night talking. Sharing their love for one another. She had requested that he let her go, and wanted him not to tarry. To move on with his life. So that’s what he was going to do, despite the difficulty of the task.
That was why he was here, sitting in the darkest corner of the balcony section of The Crossroads, nursing a beer. He had sent Lady Munin a text earlier in the week to set up the meeting, and then another not an hour ago letting her know where he was sitting. He had gotten here early so as to get some liquid courage in him for the confrontation, as he was sure that she was still pretty hot about the situation that occurred a few days ago between Alex and Press.
He shook his head at the thought of the big man, knowing that his partner had a lot of pressure on him being the champion. It didn’t help that his personal life was mostly nonexistent, which was no fault of Munin’s, but the feelings that Press bore for her certainly didn’t help. There was only one way that he could think of to help alleviate that tension, and maybe explain Press’ behavior towards her as of late, and that was to get it out in the open.
It made him feel a little dirty sitting here, knowing what he was about to do. Sure, Press would say that it was none of his business. That he had no right. That it was personal. But that was just it. They had been best friends for fifteen years, Tag Team Partners, inseparable. They had shared experiences that most people wouldn’t, hell, couldn’t comprehend, and the very nature of how close they were made it impossible for them to keep secrets from one another for long.
He mused at that word. ‘Secrets’. That was just it. It wasn’t a secret to anyone but the person he was about to explain it to. Samedi already knew. Anyone with half a brain who paid the least amount of attention could figure it out. He was pretty sure that even Alex Cross was becoming wise to it, and Press and Alex were rarely ever in the same room together. That of course, was by design. If they were ever forced to work together, Youth couldn’t guarantee that his partner wouldn’t put Alex through a table on principle alone.
Just then a familiar form appeared at the top of the stairs. Munin paused at the stairs, her all too observant eyes sliding over Youth. He had the uncanny feeling that those dark eyes saw far more than he liked.
"I see you've started without me..."
There was no censure in her voice, just a gentle acknowledgment that she realized something was off. It only took her a moment to move out of the shadowed stairway. Candle light painting her exposed pale skin gold against the black of her shift like dress.
Youth looked up at her with the most serious tone that she had ever seen on the young man. Usually he bubbled with an exuberance that lived up to his namesake, but the man before her was all too adult for her liking. He used his foot to push the seat across from him out in an open invitation, and then took a sip of his drink before settling back in his seat.
She silently slipped into her chair, her anger had long since cooled.
"Nice to see you, Lady." Youth said, the corners of his mouth forcing a slight smile.
Tucking a strand of black hair behind one ear, and offered her own small smile. "For some reason I don't quite believe that Youth."
“Yeah, I guess that’s fair. Let’s get you a drink before we begin. I have a good feeling that you’re going to need it.”
He waved down a waitress just as she was about to move downstairs, and she made her way to the edge of the table with a questioning glance.
“Something further, Sir? Perhaps for the Lady?”
"Honey Mead, thank you Rina."
Youth nodded for one more, and Rina promptly made her way for the bar. The two sat quietly, deep in their own contemplations, when Rina returned, almost startling them. She sat a tankard in front of Munin, and another Bud Light in front of Youth, before disappearing.
Now that everyone had a drink, Youth sank back even further in his chair, taking a long sip from his beer. He looked tired, like someone who had been up for too long without a rest in between. He tussled his long hair for a minute, and then brought his hand down to rest on the table.
“This would be easier if I didn’t feel so shitty about it, but I guess I had better start at the beginning.” He paused long enough to take another sip, and then looked at Munin, but past her, as if he were trying to conjure some picture off in the distance.
“Fifteen years ago I met a guy named Preston Jones. He was one of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen, and was a pretty good wrestler to boot. Even with his physical prowess, he just couldn’t seem to get his act together. As for me, I’ve always been charismatic, but look at me. I’m a bean pole. Sure, I’ve put on a little muscle, but back then it was terrible. So the promoters took my charisma, and slapped it on Press size and ability, and next thing you know The BombTrax were born. Even as good as that combo was, it was still missing a little something at that time. This was the late 90’s after all, and everything hinged on sex appeal. Not a lot sexy about two greasy long haired guys, so they threw a hot chick into the mix. Her name was Tammy.”
He stopped for a minute at the mention of her name, furrowed his brow, almost as if in pain, and then took a long swig from his beer before continuing.
“Tammy was a bombshell, and one of the coolest chicks I’ve ever known. She made a great partner for us, and really helped the whole tag team kick things off. More than that, though, she helped take care of us. Her and Press, well, they became an item. It was good. Really good. They loved one another very much.”
Youth took a deep breath that sounded more like a sigh.
“But then one day we all ran into a little trouble. Same old story, met the wrong kind of people, Yadda, Yadda. Press and I managed to make it out, but Tammy, well, Tammy decided to stay behind. On her own. Press was heartbroken, tried to reason with her, but in the end it was her decision, and it was final.”
Youth paused to eye Munin for a second.
“Now I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, cause I know how this all sounds. Tammy wasn’t looking to hurt anyone. Hell, she was actually doing the right thing by all counts, but it was us who couldn’t stick it out. It was just all too crazy. Eh, None of that part matters, so we’re going to skip it. The point is, Tammy and Press were together for five years, and then one day they weren’t. That’s been nearly ten years ago to this day, and Press hasn’t been with anyone since.”
Munin sipped her mead with a clear expression. Behind the calm mask though something was twisting in her gut. It didn't take a genius to figure out something was wrong.
"When I say no one, I mean no one. I can't be sure, but I don't even think he masturbates. He's like a priest or something, you know, with gratuitous cursing and beer.”
Youth actually paused to smile at that remark, but then shook his head with a chuckle, and continued. The look Munin was giving clearly said how little she wanted to hear about Press's masturbation habits, but Youth didn’t seem to notice.
"It's not like he just buried it, and moved on with his life. That's what most people do. If you haven't noticed, he's a pretty moody fuck, but he's done the best he can. He married himself to wrestling, to his hobbies, to the Pontiac, but I don't think he ever really let it go, he just learned to not think about it as much. Every once in a while it creeps up on him, and on occasion, I've even used it to fire him up.”
He hung his head low at that, shrugging halfheartedly.
"its how I got him to join up with Evolution Wrestling in the first place. I told him I was sick of watching him act as everything was alright, even though it wasn't. Almost as if he was just waiting around to die."
Youth got quiet for a moment, and just stared at his beer, before finally looking up to meet Munin's eyes.
"You see, I had something happen to me recently. A loss, if you will, that I'd rather not go into. Needless to say, though, it brought a few things to my conscious. I don't want to see Press go through life with regrets, or worrying what might have been. I want him to live as full a life as possible, and sometimes that means taking chances. I think that's what really holds him back from trying to put himself out there. He's afraid if he takes another chance on that big a scale, that he's going to lose, and he's not sure he could take that again."
Munin stayed unnervingly quite throughout Youth's litany. She made no rush to fill the aching silence, and seemed content to sip her mead...waiting for the storm. Youth remained silent for a long stretch, letting the last words he had spoken hang in the air. He stared into his bottle for what seemed like forever, before tilting his head up and looking the woman straight in the eye.
“The reason he’s been such a prick lately, is because his situation has changed. He does feel something for someone else, and after ten years of thinking he’d never feel that way again, he doesn’t know exactly how to process it. So I’m going to do it for him. He’s in love with you.”
In that moment everything clicked into place, and then immediately imploded. The glass of mead slipped from Munin's suddenly numb hand, and for the first time Youth saw fear in Munin's eyes.
"He what?"
He sat back, his face a mask of concern and burden. He thought about what to say now that the cat was out of the bag, but he and Press had made a living of just going forward with one foot in front of the other, and this time was no different, so he sucked in a deep breath of air, looked the Lady in the eye once more, and blurted it out for the second time.
"He's in love with you."
Munin suddenly looked much smaller in her chair. Her exotic dark eyes larger with distress, and her very movement seemed edgy.
"Why would you say something like that?"
"Because it's the truth," Youth replied probably a little to matter-of-factly for Munin at that moment, if she even heard it all. He sighed, and shook his head. "Listen, no one's asking you to do anything. Hell, he'd kill me if he had any idea I was here. I'm waiting any minute now for him to burst through that door and powerbomb me off the balcony through the floor, but that's unlikely to happen, as I scheduled our meeting for the exact same time he was going into the studio to do his promo work."
"I don't know how, or why it happened. That isn't really my concern. It’s the fact that it did happen, after nearly ten years of nothing. That's what I'm trying to tell you, Munin. That's why this is important. There was nothing. I've tried to rationalize it myself, hell, he's tried to rationalize it. I don't think, no...Actually, I know he has no idea why he feels the way he does, he just does."
As he spoke Munin leaned forward to bury her face in her hands. At this point he couldn't even be sure that she heard him. The silence that stretched between them was filled with an unsettling current. It was that feeling you got when standing next to a live wire.
"What is the point in telling me this?"
The undercurrent of energy in the room was becoming down right uncomfortable.
"You know, maybe I didn't do the right thing here. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, and just let all of this go on as it had been, with you in the dark, and him tearing himself apart. All I know for certain is that we only have one shot on this earth, one chance to get it right, but we can fuck it up, cause we're weak. Cause we're scared. Hell, cause it's just what we humans do. Ten years is a long time to hold onto something that let go of you, and I don't want him going through another ten holding onto something that might never be."
Dark eyes peeked out at him between pale fingers.
"Might never happen? I am in a serious relationship Youth. How does telling me this help annnyone?"
The tone of forlornness was quickly seeping away only to be replaced with rage. Enough quiet rage to raise the hair on the back of Youth's neck. Before anymore could be said heavy hurried steps could be hear coming up the wooden steps. Samedi was soon making his way towards the table. A odd look of strain on his face.
"Munin?"
The tall man approached the table with measured step. A shadow walking through light. When the smaller woman didn't respond right away he frowned slightly in Youth's direction.
"Nin...look you spilled your drink."
He reached the table, and something in his practical words seemed to penetrate whatever thoughts she was caught in. Slowly she blinked up at Sam, as if just noticing his presence.
"What?"
Slowly he knelt down to eye level, and set the cup back on the table. Never taking his eyes from her's. "Your drink, you spilled it all over the floor. You better be careful or it will get on your shoes."
Slowly the low frequency buzz in the air began to disappear. Dropping her hands from her face she looked down at the ground. Moving her slippers away from the liquid, as she did so.
"I'm sorry Sam, I didn't mean to..."
Youth sat in his chair, staring across at the two, a sudden feeling bubbling up inside of him from a dark place. He took the last sip of his beer, and sat it down on the table in front of him, making a tapping noise as he did so.
"Yes, indeed, Sam. It appears a great many things are breaking loose round here." He said in a calm, deep, even voice.
She looked over at Youth her composure building back before his eyes, leaving nothing of her previous distress. Though the traces of sadness in her eyes was clear to anyone that knew her.
"Yes, it seems like my true talent lies in breaking things. Especially things I never had any intention of ever breaking."
With a small tired sigh Munin pushed away from the table.
"Put that, and whatever he is drinking, on my tab...I need some air. Good bye Youth."
For once she didn't bother to hear whatever their respective replies might have been. She simply slipped out of the room without another word, and soon she had disappeared down the stairs.
Samedi watched her go, and then turned his head back around to regard Youth with a much sterner expression than before. "Have you lost your mind, Redeemer? This could have just ended in catastrophe!"
Youth shot up out of his seat, his jaw set, his eyes like black orbs as they bore into the Cajun's. "Watch your tone with me, Priest, as you are no longer the only one with power here."
A thunder crackled in Youth's voice, and lightening could be seen dancing in his eyes, and the overall display shocked Samedi enough to cause him to take a step back. The Priest sank into the chair that Munin was occupying, suddenly feeling his age, knowing where this pent up dissension was coming from inside of the young man.
"I am sorry, Jason. I never intended for things to go so badly for you."
Youth let the power that was building in him fade, and he shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. He bit his lower lip to keep from letting it all hang out right there for the world to see, and made his way past Samedi towards the steps.
In his passing, his final words hung in the air, haunting the old man.
"Neither did I."
*****SATURDAY June 4th, 2016 – Pure Arena Broadcasting Booth*****
The scene opens up with a shot of Press halfway sitting on an announce desk, the PAW logo hanging behind him as a backdrop, and the Heavyweight Championship sitting casually on the desk, the face plate facing forward. He just sat there for a moment, looking down at the ground in front of him, his long hair framing his face. When he finally looked up, his eyes were hard.
“You haven’t heard from me in a while, and for that, I apologize. I know it’s customary for the guy whose face is on every promotional banner in the park to be the one who stays actively behind a camera, but let me tell you folks, being the champion of this gin joint is an exhausting job. There’s local T.V. spots, promotional ads, interviews with the papers, multiple appearances, talking with the major New Orleans’ radio shows, not to mention showing up every wrestling event whether you’re booked or not. Hey, I’m not complaining, just explaining, that this….”
He pats the championship.
“Is a full time job.”
He smirks a bit, leaning farther back and crossing his arms over his chest. The slight smile begins to fade, however, and his expression becomes distant.
“But if I’m being 100% honest, which is the very reason I think that I get over as well as I do with you fans, the truth is, I haven’t had much to say.”
He nods in affirmation, and then looks back to the camera with a serious tone.
“I know, I know. With everything that’s been going on around this place, how can I say that I don’t have anything to say, but let’s face facts. On three separate occasions I faced Stevie Harris, and on three separate occasions I put Stevie Harris down. Now I can’t say, ‘as simple as that’, cause there wasn’t a damn thing simple about it. Harris and I made war upon one another the likes that probably won’t be seen in PAW for many months to come. Psychological. Physical. Mental. Emotional. We ran the gamut around here about what people wanted to see out of their wrestling contests, and it was a lot more than just wrestling. And you know what’s so fucked up about it all? I’m not even the one who put the guy away.”
Press can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head despite himself.
“Those kudo’s belong to Johnny Raike. He did, what I couldn’t. He sent that sociopathic madman packing, and he never even had to get inside of a wrestling ring to do it. All it took was one phone call to the feds, and Stevie Harris got exactly what he deserved when he was placed in cuffs and thrown into the back of an FBI vehicle. So, Johnny, I tip my hat to you.”
He makes a gesture with his hand.
“But where does that leave me, huh? Personally, I’ve enjoyed just sitting back and watching as CJ O’Donnell and Calvin Harris have run rings around one another, arguing about who’s the real number one contender. I mean, I thought I was supposed to be the one with a target on my back, but it appears that honor falls to the guy who’s next in line to face me. While you two have been strutting around, bickering about which of you has the bigger Johnson, I’ve been biding my time, doing my thing, waiting to see which one of you was going to take possession of the yard.”
Press smirks, eyes turning to molten orbs.
“Either way, it didn’t really matter, cause at the end of the day, no matter how much you two crow about being the best, I’m still the ruler of the fucking hen house. And not just cause I say so either. It’s because THIS….”
He pats the championship once more.
“Says so. And until one of you step up to the plate and take it from me, all the talk in the world doesn’t mean a god damn thing. But hey, it all worked out in the end didn’t it. Johnny Raike and Calvin Harris are going to duke it out to find out who’s going to be the new #1 Contender, while the current contender finally gets his shot at the title.”
His jaw tightens.
“CJ O’Donnell. The Distinguished. You know, I’ve been wondering about that nickname. What the fuck does that even mean? The Distinguished? I know what Webster’s says; successful, authoritative, and commanding great respect. But is that really you, CJ? I mean shit, I can come up with all sorts of adjectives to describe you, kid, but distinguished isn’t one of them. Does it make you distinguished cause you stole this opportunity with a kiss? Does it make you distinguished because ever since that moment, way back at the St. Patrick’s Day Super Show, you’ve went on to lose every fucking match? Does it make you distinguished because at every single turn you’ve tried to lay me out with that running knee of yours, and every single time you’ve failed?”
Press gives the camera a ludicrous expression, shaking his head in disbelief.
“But hey, I guess we can’t put all the blame on you, can we? You’re a busy man. You’re on a national stage with 4CW, just coming down here to slum it with us hillbillies. Yeah, that’s right, CJ. I watch you on Adrenaline, you and your ‘Unstable’ boys running around, owning the place. You’ve done alright for yourself over there in the big promotion, that is, as long as nothing’s on the line. Your win record on Adrenaline is pretty amazing when you think about it, but what is it about that big fight feel that causes your cock to run up inside itself? Fright Night, LOSS! Winter Wasteland, LOSS! South Beach Brawl, LOSS! Hell, your PPV count is startling to look like your fucking PAW career.”
Press grins now, a twinkle in his eye.
“Well CJ, let me clue you in on something. This championship sitting beside me, it’s all some of us fucking have. We don’t have the ‘Big Wrasslin Promotion’ to fall back on when REAL competition rears its ugly head. So while you fucking ballerinas rake in the buckets of cash you swindle off the fools who haven’t discovered the indy revolution, the only thing us lower echelon peeps have ‘distinguished’ about you, is that you’re a fucking embarrassment to the sport of professional wrestling.”
Press shrugs his shoulders while simultaneously uncrossing his arms so that he can lean forward.
“All that aside, CJ, I can’t look past you. If you haven’t figured it out by now, let me make it crystal clear. This is important to me. It means something to have this title. Why do you think Johnny Raike and Calvin Harris have agreed to try and murder one another at Heat Stroke? Cause just the opportunity to contend for it is worth everything to us.”
Press spits in the corner, and then returns his glare to the camera.
“For all of your bullshit, you are a threat. I’ve seen what you can do in the ring. Hell, I saw what you did to my own partner. But that was then, this is now, and if it seems like I’m trying to fucking bury you, it’s because I am. My intention is to dump you on your head, just like I’ve done everyone else so far that’s been put in front of me. I’m going to do everything in my power to bring this fight to you in a way that you’ve never experienced, never even conceived of. I’m going to hurt you, CJ. Not because I hate you, and everything your type represents, but because it is what I fucking do. Ask Jack Swanson. Ask Cross Recoba. If you can get visitation, go ask Stevie fucking Harris.”
Press wipes the spittle from his lips, anger starting to boil over.
“Those aren’t threats, or big words, or the blustering of and oversized ego, CJ. Those are just the facts. So go ahead, hit me with your usual rebuttal. Tell me all about how great you are, and that you’re the best. Tell me all your honorifics, your accolades, and your claims to glory. Hell, call me out for talking about your losses, ask me if I’ve ever had setbacks. The answer is yes, CJ, and it’s those setbacks that have forged the man that stands before you today, and the very reason that I covet this championship even when it’s in my possession.”
The camera zooms in on those dark orbs, piercing out to grab anyone that’s watching.
“June 9th, 2016, will mark the day that men do battle. It will mark the day that CJ O’Donnell distinguishes himself as who he truly is, champion or corpse. I can’t make that decision for you, CJ, but I can be the guy that does everything in his power to make sure you’re the latter. I just hope you have enough left in you to cover the burial costs. Until, Heat Stroke, however, I have my own duties to attend to. It’s called being the fucking champion.”
Press grabs his belt before hopping off the desk, and exits the camera view before the scene fades to black.
