Post by Press1269 on Jul 29, 2016 5:52:05 GMT
SEAT OF POWER - Chapter 3
THE PRATHER COLISEUM
220 S. Jefferson Street - Natchitoches, LA
7/22/2016 – Directly after WICKED#15
220 S. Jefferson Street - Natchitoches, LA
7/22/2016 – Directly after WICKED#15
Youth helped Press get into a seated position on the gurney, and the big man grunted as he placed his fists on his knee’s to help keep himself upright. The smaller man looked on in concern, as the EMT’s took over from there, gently pushing him to the back of the room as they attended to the PAW Heavyweight champion.
Press looked up from under his brow and through his long stringy hair to catch the younger man’s eyes, and gave a slight smile, despite the effort it took, to ensure him that he would be alright. Youth noticed this, and nodded, not so much in agreement or understanding, but as a show of reassurance for his partner to worry about his own self.
He found himself slipping out of the room for a moment, allowing the medical staff to work their magic. There would be no trips to the hospital tonight. Number one, Press would never allow it. Number two, it wasn’t so bad that he needed long term care. This was the side of the curtain that the fans rarely ever saw. That place where the wrestler got patched together like on old car, and sent on its way, just praying that no bolts were knocked loose on the way to the destination.
It was probably for the best that the fans didn’t know, because this decade of fan didn’t really care either way. All they wanted was for the ticket they paid their hard earned money for to be worth it, and he couldn’t really blame them. With the way things were anymore with the chaos in the world, everyone deserved their escapes.
A sudden thought struck him just then, and he fell back against the cinderblock wall blowing out a hot rush of air. Was this what it felt like to be GZW?
Match interference and back stage attacks were common place in wrestling. It was how they propelled their storylines and feuds, how they sold tickets. The higher the stakes in a feud, the bigger the payout, and usually, win or lose, a higher brand of star after the feud was over with. The higher the star, the more quality you could guarantee the consumer, and the more you could guarantee, the more you could demand for the price of admission. So in a sense, these attacks were just business.
The problem came in the fact that so many times in the wrestling world, business tended to turn personal, and when things became personal, people got hurt. When wrestlers got hurt, it didn’t just compromise that one person’s life, but trickled down to every other star in the promotion. A big enough injury in the Indy’s, and you could close a place down cold.
Pure Amusement Wrestling was a fast rising promotion, and the loss of a Press or a Youth wouldn’t shut the doors, but it would put a strain on the business. The same strain felt when Cross Recoba had been sidelined back in March at WICKED#5. The biggest difference being that Press never intended to sideline Cross for five months, just knock him out of the way for five minutes. What these guys did tonight was aimed like a bullet with a purpose, and that bullet’s name was Calvin Harris.
Youth physically bristled at the thought of the #1 contender, even though there was no one around to see it. It was just a gut reaction that he wasn’t in control of. Calvin Harris seemed to do that to everyone. Even the guys he was teaming with at the moment didn’t like him, but they saw the potential of throwing their lot in with him for the time being. The only problem is, that they were vipers, one in the same, and no matter how much you think you can tame a viper, you can’t.
He didn’t hold the attack on Press, or himself for that matter, against them. When you were the champion, or the champion’s pal, you had a target painted on your back. Those were just the breaks. Not to mention it would be a little hypocritical of The BombTrax to go around throwing stones in glass houses, considering they had built a reputation by creating pathways of destruction wherever they called home. No, the attack came with the territory. It was business.
But that same line of thought brought him back to GZW. That wasn’t just business. That was personal. Some even said that it went too far, although the Lady didn’t seem displeased with the method or the result. Maybe that’s because she saw the writing on the wall. There was a time that PAW needed GZW, a rough patch when no one knew how long the doors were going to stay open. They had gotten through that, forged a new standard, brought in new, better talent, and The BombTrax were at the center of it all. Press, as the Heavyweight Champion, was leading the charge.
So when GZW stepped over the line, when they put their hands on Munin, business no longer mattered. It had become personal, for reasons that no one save Youth and Munin knew about. Press was going to put GZW down like a dog that had bitten him, and there was nothing anyone could have said or done to prevent it.
Because in their sport violence was their trade. It’s what they sold. Sure, there was the opportunity to crack a joke, put a catchphrase on a t-shirt, but violence, well, that was their bread and butter. That’s how The BombTrax made a living. They weren’t wrestlers, they were gladiators, and this contest between them and the Power Trio was going to end in death. Right or wrong no longer really mattered.
They wouldn’t bitch out and head for the hills like GZW. They were nothing like GZW.
They were violence, and in good time, Calvin Harris, Cross Recoba, and Jack Nomad would come to completely understand exactly what that meant.
THE BOSTON CLUB
824 Canal Street – New Orleans, Louisiana
7/27/2016 – 10:56 PM
Joshua Tsabo stood in the doorway of their large bathroom staring at the woman in amusement. He had read the same reports earlier before bringing them back up to their bed chamber for her review. The past several days spent in New Orleans had been pleasant enough.
He and Andrew Kensing, The Left Hand’s chief security officer, had gone over the plans to infiltrate The Emporium in detail, followed by a list of credible operatives that would be up for the task. Joshua wanted the best of the best, so that if things did go wrong, they would be competent to handle it.
Scarlett had taken to The Shops at Canal Place in the French Quarter for the first several days, before she fell into a boredom, and began doing her own research in The Boston Club’s library. Scarlett was obviously a beautiful, well dressed, and well-read woman, and at first glance she seemed the typical debutante of her station. Yet there was more to her than met the eye, and it was widely understood in those secret circles that existed within The Left Hand that she was a woman who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. Not to mention her talent at deciphering languages, and her studies in the dark arts made her an invaluable addition to the team.
It was still hard for him to believe sometimes that she was really here, considering that it was her father and brother who spear headed The Left Hand’s rival organization, The Legacy, but he knew she had her reasons. After her falling out with Johnny Storm, the miscarriage of their child, and her failure to save her first born son from drowning, Scarlett had abandoned her father’s work, citing that it was a waste of time. If God wanted humanity to inherit this earth, then HE would have made them better.
They had met in Munich, Germany, while he was on an errand to steal a ring from Haus der Kunst, a non-collection museum located on the southern edge of Englischer Garten, Munich’s largest park. Haus der Kunst was mostly known for paintings and sculptures, but a private collector had lent a bevy of jewelry ranging from medallions to crowns. The ring of Svíagris was rumored to be there, the very same ring that had restorative powers if one knew the right incantation to speak.
Joshua had recently had his accident, the one which turned his left hand up to the elbow into a solid piece of living granite. He had mused often about the fact that his injury happened to the same appendage in which his cause was named, but figured that was kismet’s way of telling a joke. His hope was that the ring would undo the effects so that he could finally laugh about it.
Scarlett was there in Munich to gather information about dimensional wormholes from the Deutsches Museum, the largest museum dedicated to science and technology in the world. It was a sure sign that she had yet to abandon hope for locating her son, who by all counts had drowned, but whose body was never recovered. She maintained that something ‘else’ had taken him, and that’s why no one could find his remains. The authorities thought she was mad, and eventually her father and brother joined them in that notion, eventually forcing Scarlett to conduct her research on her own.
That in itself was what had drawn them together. They had recognized one another right off, having once been on opposite sides of the battlefield. The two had played a cat and mouse game throughout Munich, until finally settling on a meeting atop the Frauenkirche, a gothic domed church located down town. Their chemistry was instantaneous despite their hesitation, and after discussing their varying reasons for their visit in Germany, they decided it best to work together, if for no other reason than to keep the other in plain sight.
Joshua understood more than most about the dimensional doorways that resided all around us if we were only trained to look, so Scarlett’s story didn’t seem as odd to him as it may have to her family. Just like when Tsabo explained his situation to her, she herself an practitioner of the dark arts, understood his desire to reverse the effects.
Neither of them got what they wanted from that trip to Germany. The Deutsches Museum had all the scientific answers, but none of the mystical needed to produce such a phenomenon, while the ring turned out to be just that, a ring, with no real mystical properties. What they did gain in the search of these pursuits was a connection, a friendship that would eventually turn to something more intimate. Understanding and acceptance were a beautiful thing.
Scarlett looked over her shoulder and spied Joshua surveying her curvaceous bottom, and she smiled at the man who had managed to put the pieces of her heart back together.
“So, you’ve selected the men? Are they ready?”
Joshua nodded, entering the room, and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, they will be on schedule for two weeks from now.”
“And what about the priest?” She asked, eyebrows arched.
“Arrangements have been made to keep the priest at his other location.” Tsabo answered with a smile. “No, the priest will be none the wiser until after it’s already missing.”
Scarlett nodded in understanding, turning back to look over the plans. Joshua let his hand casually find itself in the crux of her knee, and then slowly slide up her thigh until reaching the base of her buttox. He squeezed, and she looked back over her shoulder again, this time with a flash of desire in her eyes.
She snapped up off the bed as quick as a cat, tackling Joshua so that he was now flat on his back with her straddling his waist. Papers went scattering across the room from the sudden flourish, but she didn’t seem to mind as she grabbed his wrists and thrust them above his head. Her lip curled back from her teeth seductively, before she leaned in and placed those lips upon his.
The open window let the warm air from the Gulf of Mexico into the room, and a sudden gust of wind rustled the papers around on the floor until they finally settled in a pattern. The paper closest to the top carried an image, and when the moonlight hit it, the wind outside picked up its speed, and a howl could be heard upon the wind. It didn’t seem to unsettle the lovers, actually spurring them on to work up a few sounds of their own.
PURE AMUSEMENT PARK
Studio Production Room – Purity, Louisiana
7/16/2016
The scene opened up inside of one of the PAW Anchor Studios where Press and Youth both sat upon the desk. Youth stared at the camera, while Press just leaned back, arms across his chest, staring down at the floor. Suddenly the big man brought his arms out to his side, and he began to clap his hands in front of him. Youth looked over his shoulder and smirked, as the Champion finally leaned forward, flipping his hair out of his eyes to reveal a healing shiner left over from last WICKED’s attack.
His clapping continued as he scooted off the desk, and began to pace the small room. When he finally stopped clapping, the silence left behind was eerie and unsettling. He never stopped to address the camera, but instead spoke in a deep calm voice.
“Bravo, Cross Recoba. Bravo. You might not believe this, but it really is nice seeing you away from that cane. I knew that one day you would come back for your revenge, but how could anyone have known it would be like that. I mean, shit son, you had me fooled. I saw you out there while they were filming The Box Office, and I found it a little odd how it seemed rushed. When production told me it was being added to the Special Features, I thought it was a little strange, but there you were, still hobbling around on that cane, so I assumed that it was just a play at the initial time constraints of the card.”
Press smirked, shaking his head.
“But no, it was all a charade. Just something to throw me off the scent, I suppose. I have to give you credit. You earned every bit of that moniker, ‘The Fox’. Funny thing about that though, Cross, when the king went out on a fox hunt he took his best hounds to flush that little bastard out, and make no mistake. We are the fucking dogs for this job.”
Press licked his lips, agitation starting to creep into his expression as he continued to pace.
“Bravo, Jack Nomad. Bravo. You talk about honor like you know what it fucking means, while in the same breath you hulk out your chest and claim you’re a monster. Monsters don’t have honor, boy, cause their fucking monsters. It’s just not in their nature. They take what they want, when they want it, even if it means ruining someone else’s lives.”
He seemed to speak from experience, but if there were to be any further explanation, now was not the time.
“So which is it, Jack? Are you a monster, or are you an honorable man? I think maybe you’re just a confused, insecure, little pup caught up in a big dog’s game like the bullies that take a kids lunch money cause they don’t know any other way to get any attention. If you weren’t so fucking pathetic, and I though you could be trained, I’d rub your nose in the shit you’ve made and beat you with a rolled up newspaper. But you are, and you fucking can’t be, so I guess I’ll just have to leave you to steep in your own mediocrity.”
He chuckled then, not really the kind of laughter that had any real mirth behind it, but the kind that told you there wasn’t much more he could say.
“Bravo, Calvin Harris. Bravo. You managed to save yourself from the shit show that was the first incarnation of your little band of misfits, because I can tell you right now, ole’ Cross, he’s an A+ Player. A hell of a lot more threatening than some of your previous choices. Between your talent, Jack’s pandering, and Cross’ direction, you three little piss ant’s might stand a chance at putting a dent in The BombTrax armor.”
Press stops, a sardonic grin spreading across his face as he finally turns to address the camera head on.
“Oh, Wait. Let me fucking guess. You three thought I was going to be just like you. You thought I was going to downplay what happened out there at WICKED#15. You thought I was going to no sell it. You thought that I was going to bitch and whine and act like all of this was so unfair, and maybe even toss out words like, Sucker Punch, or Sneak Attack, or Cowards Way Out.”
Press chuckled now, and this time amusement creeped its way into the sound.
“You three haven’t been paying much attention. What you did is only what we’ve done a hundred times over. I can just see you ass hat’s now, running around the locker room, patting one another on the back, and passing out high fives. Calvin Harris saying preachy shit like…
Press scrunches up his face, but can’t hid the smile as he does his best Harris impression.
“’This is only the beginning’. Are you fucking kidding me?” He chuckles again. “That was your fucking crescendo! That was your swan song! That is as far as you sons of bitches are ever going to get to this fucking belt.”
Press holds up the PAW Heavyweight Championship by a strap, and shakes his head for the camera with another grin.
“Take a good long look, boys. Cause Cross you couldn’t do it way back when. Calvin Harris can’t do it at Bad Moon Rising. And Jack…well, Jack, you’re just going to have to settle on the fact that there’s not going to be much left for you when I show you what a real fucking monster really is.”
Press chuckles again, plopping down on the desk, as Youth hops up and suddenly appears right in the camera.
“FIFTEEN FUCKING YEARS! FIFTEEN! That’s how long we’ve been The BombTrax, and in that time we’ve both suffered a few setbacks in singles competition, but as a Tag Team, we’ve never lost a match.”
Youth shudders, exasperated.
“Do you comprehend? UNDEFEATED! Unbeaten. Unconquered. Never Lost. Streak. Triumphant. World Class. Top Notch. Out of this World. Prize Winning. Unbelievable. To make an outdated quote, ‘WINNING!’”
Youth’s expression fell, and he sucked in air as he looked up at the ceiling, hands on his hips.
“And we lost all of that to a couple of guys like Calvin Harris and Jack Nomad. I mean, we put the Tag in TAG TEAM for Christ’s sake! How in the hell could a travesty like this take place. Oh yeah, Cross Recoba.”
Youth’s lips drew into his mouth, and threw his pointer finger out as if a light bulb just went off in his head.
“Cross. Fucking. Recoba. His name sounds like a fucking Casino from an old black and white movie! It’s a travesty, I tell you! A Travesty!”
Youth lifts his arm up to bury his face into it, and makes with what looks like sobbing. After just a few seconds he allows his eyes to peep up over his bicep, and when his arm drops he wears his trademark grin.
“Nah, guy’s, it’s cool. We’ve actually been talking, and we decided that undefeated was really an unattainable goal to keep going after for fifteen years. So we decided to make some new goals. Like, instead of trying so hard to remain undefeated, why not put our efforts into being first. Like, being the first ever PAW Heavyweight Champion! CHECK!”
Youth jumped up and down in front of the camera, clapping his hands giddily.
“And now, we’ve got a chance to make a much larger statement about our brand as a tag team, by being the FIRST ever PAW Tag Team Champions. Imagine it folks, a mystical land where your heroes both carry gold. Hell, maybe we won’t even stop there. Maybe I’ll call out the winner of the Titans of the Midway Championship match at Bad Moon Rising, grab me up a singles title. Make this whole thing official. The FIRST tag team to hold all the titles. Why stop there! Me and Press will just swap titles, and then we’ll be the FIRST ever GRAND SLAM CHAMPIONS!”
Jazz hands accompany the statement, and he stares out beyond the camera as if to the Promised Land, nodding his head in approval. Finally, he returns that boyish grin to the camera.
“But speaking of firsts, it's best not to get ahead of ourselves. After all, we have to get past Johnny Sykes and Ava. ‘The Original Pranksta’ and ‘Da Bomb Dot Com’. Well, the pranks on you guys, cause like every opponent that I’ve ever faced likes to point out, we know something about outdated gimmicks. Hell, we fucking invented them.”
Wink.
“I’m sure that you guys have a similar story to ours. You break into the business with a cool hip name straight out of the 90’s that you’re sure is going to be a hit in the millennium, only to find out that now people are looking at you like we used to look at people from the 70’s. But your talent earned you a lot, so the fans sort of overlooked the goofy ass names, and somehow even made it endearing. And now you’re here, living it up in PAW just like us. Well, not exactly.”
Youth shakes his head in disappointment.
“You see, people can run their mouths about how me and the big man are out dated, and then we drop them off the side of a fucking roof, and there’s just not much more left to say. On their parts that is. I always have more to say.”
A loud sigh comes from behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to Press, who raises his eyebrows, and makes to look at his watch. Youth pumps the brakes at his partner, and then turns back to the camera with a smile.
“Sooooooooo.... this is what I have to say to you two. Come Thursday, the world’s best tag team is going to come into a special tag team edition of WICKED, and your loss is going to help us attain our new tag team goals. Fuck me, that was a lot of Tag Teaming. I'm sure Power Trio knows a thing or two about that. Damn, I strayed from the point. Oh...yeah....Ava, Sykes. Thanks in advance. Your contribution to our success won't go unrewarded. See you at WICKED!”
Youth gives a mocking bow, and grins at the camera just before it fades to black.
