Post by Press1269 on Oct 28, 2016 20:46:03 GMT
DC Armory and Sports Complex
Washington, D.C.
10/28/2016
He had contacted the AWE front offices, and they had said that Radford had informed them of his work in the ring. A trial offer was made, and he decided to take the gamble, and make his way to Washington. A consultant to the Talent Relations Officer had already booked him in AWE’s first show. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line, and he could get paid.
He stalked into the complex when he arrived, going where he had been directed by the agent. A few people were in the room, but only one held recognition. He stalked that way, plopped down in the chair in front of the desk, and scowled right at the man sitting across from him.
“Mr. Buchanan?” The man asked tentatively.
“You got it. Now, you gotta paper for me to sign?”
The man nodded, flipping through a scattering of folders on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. He opened it up, turned it, and then sat it in front of the surly black man.
“This is a standard trial contract, Mr. Buchanan. It guarantees $500 a match, with the promise of more if….”
Sam leaned forward and signed the contract, dated it, and then went through the marked pages where he needed to initial before the agent could even finish his pitch. He sat back in his chair after he was done, and returned to his glare.
“Listen, Cracka, I don’t need all that shit. As long as I get paid, that’s all that matters. Now you said I was written in on the card that’s coming up on November 6th, and I want to know who I’m facing.”
The agent stared at the signed contract, and shook his head in disbelief as he brought it back to his side of the desk to review. “Yes, we have you booked in a qualifying match against a man named Austin Gale. If you win that match, you’ll go on to compete in a triple threat in our Main Event for an opportunity to be the first ever Resilience Champion.”
S.O.B. suddenly sat forward, eyebrows raised. “A Main Event, and a title match in my first run. Is you fucking serious?”
The agent looked up from the contract, and gave a resigned expression. “Well, you would need to beat Austin Gale before you could earn that opportunity.”
“Shit, Cracka, you got a smart phone? Pull that shit out cause we fixin to do some business.”
The agent’s eyebrows shot up, but he did as he was asked, holding the phone up in front of him, and then pressing record as S.O.B. turned his hat backwards, and settled back in the chair, very little about his expression ever changing.
“Austin Gale. Let me tell you what that sounds like to me. A pasty faced Cracka with a silver spoon jammed in his mouth, and a soft gait to his walk. Muthafucka ain’t never worked a day in his life, so he ain’t got no real concept of what it takes to make it in this world without his trust fund footing the bill.”
S.O.B. shifts.
“I mean, I bet this muthafucka ain’t ever had to wipe his own ass. Probably got some man servant doing shit like that for him. Why? How do I know all this? Cause just look at the Muthafucka’s name! Austin Gale! First name is one of those Pseudo rich muthafucka’s names, and Gale…well god damn. That’s a woman’s name. You telling me that some trumped up Cracka with a name like that is gonna beat me? Fuck that. You, Agent Man, give me some specific? Who even let this Cracka be a part of this thing?”
The Agent clears his throat off camera, and then responds. “Well, Mr. Buchanan, it says in his file he got his start in wrestling from a man named Adam Wolfe.”
S.O.B.’s eyes go wide, and if steam could have come out of his ears, it would have.
“IS YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Adam ‘Fucking’ Wolfe? The Muthafucka that plays with Puppets. God Damn, this shit is unreal. Matter of fact, I always thought those two would make a good couple. Adam Wolfe looked like the kind of bitch who would like for his strings to be pulled by some psycho whore, and now he’s passing it on to a new generation. I bet Austin Gale is some fucked up mental patient that was locked away cause his uncle Edgar kept making passes at him in the cement pond, and he got confused as to which way his dick should point. Enter Adam Wolfe, ass hat extraordinaire, and now you got a full-fledged cluster fuck!”
S.O.B. paused, taking a moment to breathe after the diatribe and looking wild eyed and ridiculous. Suddenly, he looks to the agent, a disturbing thought lighting up in his brain.
“Wait! Is…Is this muthafucka from Canada?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“God Damn! This is perfect. I’m gonna snatch this muthafucka’s silver spoon right out his mouth, shove it up his ass, then put my boot to it just to hear the splatter from inside his chest, and he’s going to turn around and apologize to me! Shit, I’m going to have to come up with a whole new game plan. This Cracka is sicker than I thought! Now cut and print this shit, and I’ll be back after I’ve collected my thoughts.”
S.O.B. slams his fist down on the desk, and stalks towards the door, the words ‘Moose Track’s lovin’ Cracka!’ signaling his exit.