Post by Press1269 on Feb 24, 2019 20:12:54 GMT
His hand reached out somewhere in the dark to slam against the alarm clock that was now making the announcement, “Hey, you’re still alive, wake up you giant fuck!” His finger finally found the button to shut it off, and one eye peeped open to see that, indeed, sunshine was filtering through the blinds. With a heavy sigh, he swung his legs out of the bed and pushed himself up to sit on its edge, his massive frame causing the coils to creak beneath him.
Press was not a morning person. Subsequently, he wasn’t a people person, by proxy not a social media person, and in general hated surprises. That’s why the smell of bacon and eggs wafting into his room from the kitchen brought a smile to his face. That meant, like clockwork, his partner in crime and best friend, Youth, was already up and making breakfast.
He hoisted himself up out of bed, throwing on a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt, and made his way out of the bedroom and into their living room. The room was rather Spartan, with only a couch, a chair, and a television. Over by the sliding glass doors that led out to their balcony was a small round table with chairs, one of them still pulled out with a lap top and a stack of papers sitting in front of it.
He ambled over in that direction, reaching down and picking up the stack of papers and started thumbing through them. Power Bill. Internet Bill. Advertisement. 4CW Introduction Packet….
He paused at that, eyeing the manila envelope with the 4CW logo on it, and his voice creaked from lack of coffee when he called out to the kitchen.
“Hey Youth….”
Youth stuck his head out from the edge of the doorway, and upon sight of him he looked ridiculous as always. He had his long dark hair pulled back into a pony tail, and wore a frilly apron that had writing on the front in purple that read ‘I Stole These Burgers From Grimace’. On his feet were a pair of bright red Elmo slippers. His eyebrows rose in question as he stared stupidly at his partner.
Press regarded him for a moment, and then held up the envelope. “What the fuck is this?”
Recognition struck Youth, and he beamed a Cheshire grin towards his tag team partner. “Oh, that…it’s a welcome packet from 4CW.” With that, he slipped back into the kitchen to continue his cooking duties.
Press’ expression soured at the lack of explanation, so he moved into the doorway and leaned against the frame, leveling the envelope at Youth’s back like an accusation.
“And why would we have a welcome packet from 4CW addressed to me?”
Youth took the pan with the eggs off the stove and began ladling them onto two plates with his spatula. “Well, I signed us up for a tournament they’re throwing.”
Press continued to stare daggers into the back of Youth’s head while he added the bacon and toast to the plates. Seeing that his coy tag partner wasn’t going to give him any more information, Press prodded further in the only way he knew how.
“What the fuck do you mean you signed us up for a tournament? And where is your name on this thing?”
Youth grabbed both plates and gingerly stepped past Press, which was a feat considering he took up the majority of the door, and made his way to the table to set them down. Press followed behind closely, tossing the envelope down on the center of the table, more than a little perturbed.
Youth took his seat in front of the computer, and almost as if realizing for the first time he was being glowered at, pauses in bringing a forkful of eggs to his mouth.
“Well, uh…by us, I mean you.”
Press fell into the seat at the table dumbfounded, staring at Youth as if he had just grown two heads. Despite his shock, it didn’t prevent him from biting into a piece of bacon. After a moment of silence between them, and more than a few mouthfuls of breakfast, Press finally pushes his plate back from him and shakes his head.
“Why? Why would you do this?”
Youth shrugs, leaning back in his chair without having a good answer.
“Why not? It’s a pay day, and we could use one. I mean, we’ve still got a few endorsement deals from the PAW days, and New Orleans has been good to us, but we haven’t been in active competition for the past two years other than a few Indy spots. 4CW is a big brand, lots of money, and they are willing to throw us a little of it for showing up in this tournament.”
Press listened to the explanation stoically, unable to find any real fault in the reasoning. Finally, he puffed out a sigh and buried his forehead in his forearm on the table.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”
Youth, having seen this out of his partner a million times, decided it was his turn to play his part. In mock exasperation, he says, “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. You show up, lose, collect your paycheck, and we come home.”
Press’ head snapped up from his forearm to glare at his partner. “Lose?”
Youth chuckled a bit, and shrugged before responding. “Yeah, I mean, its 4CW. It’s the place where wrestling characters go to die.”
The big man’s brow furrowed as he sat back up in his chair, and gripped the edges of the table. The statement had been so matter of fact that there only seemed like one reasonable response he could make.
“God Damn It!”
The camera clicks on, and immediately a dingy hotel room comes into view. The paint is peeling on the wall behind two twin beds, and there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the nightstand between them. Press enters the frame, stepping past the camera wearing jeans and an old BombTrax T-shirt that reads ‘#TheAmbulanceBrokeHisFall, alluding to a time in his past when he had thrown someone from a second story rooftop only for them to crash through an ambulance parked below.
He lowered himself onto the bed, resting his forearms across his knees so that he can stare directly into the camera. His expression lacks amusement of any kind.
“4CW”
He says the company’s name with a sense of dread mingled with sarcasm.
“It’s the one place we said we’d never go, but all the same, here we are.”
He can’t help but chuckle while shaking his head at the same time. He sighs, looking back to the camera.
“I don’t say any of that lightly, I mean, most of the time when you throw out one of these promos it’s fairly simple. Promote the company, promote the product, promote your match. In the case of 4CW, however, promotion often times means burial, and quite frankly I reserve the post mortem for inside the ring.”
His jaw clenches, staring hard into the camera at the viewers on the other side.
“We’re talking about one company, two promotions, the normal 4CW product, a bunch of garbled nonsense which caters to the curtain jerkers they have signed around here, mingled with 4CW Kings Road, which I assume leads directly to the end of Perry Wallace’s cock.”
He smirks, rolling his eyes.
“I mean, that’s what this is all about right? Hubris? Ego? If you doubt me, just go listen to 4CW Radio, and you’ll hear nothing but the sound of lubed up arrogance being ejaculated over the airwaves like they’re all in a Bukakke video. The only difference is, I’m pretty sure they each take a turn being in the middle, if you get my drift.”
The smirk fades, replaced by a more serious tone.
“Then why am I here? If you hate the place so god damn much, then why did you sign up to be in their shitty tournament that is probably rigged from the start, and before you go denying it, let’s just face facts. This company has a history of politics and abuse, or do I need to call out former referee, Christopher Salieri. Yeah, that’s right, I do my homework, just like I know he eventually got fired, but how many careers did he help to usher out the door before he was caught, and was he caught because the promotion wanted him gone, or because a member of the roster finally outed the staff for the frauds they are, and he became the fall guy?”
His green eyes begin to smolder, emerald orbs burning a hole into the lens.
“You see, I might not be the greatest of all time, nor do I claim to be, but god damn if I don’t know that I’m better than this shit show, no matter how much money you have, or how far your reach goes in the wrestling world. I’m not just here for a tournament, or a throw away match. NO, I’m here to take the only thing that matters to you cucks, and that’s your fucking titles. Whether it be the Octane or the 4CW Championship, but I’m doubling down on both!”
He snorts, a smile spreading over his face, but there is no mirth in his eyes.
“But I won’t hold them hostage, Perry. I’ll come up to your main roster, and wreck the whole fucking plan. The guy that nobody’s ever heard of because everyone at the top of the heap around here has their heads so far up your ass that they can’t bother worrying about anyone that they consider to be the mud beneath their shoes. Heh, I mean, wouldn’t that be a fucking shock? Can you imagine how the heads would turn? Viduus Morta, Eli Carlson, Bryan Laughlin would all be standing around rubbing their temples, saying, ‘Wha happen?’”
Press looks down at the floor, his long blonde hair cascading down his shoulders to contour his face.
“But that won’t be the case, will it. It could never be. Not because of effort, lack of talent, because of truth, or even because I’m not good enough, but because that just isn’t in the cards for someone like me.”
His eyes flit up from the ground to look at the lens from beneath his brow.
“It’s not like I’m stupid. 4CW is the biggest promotion currently in this industry. They have all the money, all the venues, and all the attention. Don’t believe me, just ask any one of them. Trust me, they’ll tell you.”
He lifts up to lean back now, leveling his gaze at the camera.
“I’ve been told a million times before, if you go to 4CW, don’t expect to win. They won’t appreciate your style of promo. They won’t invest in your type of character. I don’t even know what that fucking means? Style of promo? What style, fucking good? Yeah, I guess that would be pretty hard to navigate if all you see and hear is the same old bullshit regurgitated week to week. Let’s up the ante, Press, you don’t really do Twitter, and lets’ face it, if you don’t have a presence on Twitter, then how can you expect for anyone to care who you are?”
A sarcastic gleam comes into his eye as he leans forward.
“But here I am, guilty as sin, running my mouth about my plight, when I have not only a match, but an opponent. Must have slipped my mind.”
He chuckles, and this time it sounds genuine.
“I guess this is the part where I drone on and on and on in pointless drivel about #####. Where I degrade you, besmirch you, and all out bury you.”
He’s already shaking his head at that last part.
“No, that’s not my shtick, but I will let you chew on this for a while. If you’ve been listening to how passionate and personal this has become over 4CW, and you are the number I drew that stands in my way, what in the hell do you think I’m going to do to you in order to achieve my goal?”
