Post by Press1269 on Jan 16, 2020 16:51:07 GMT
1/16/2019 [OFF CAMERA]
GRIFFIN STUDIOS
32 W IMPERIAL AVE, LAS VEGAS, NV
The classic Cadillac Coupe de Ville inched off of S. Main Street onto Imperial Avenue and approached Griffin Studios at a crawl. The Broker had given them all the information that he had before they had sent him back to hell, but it wasn't a lot. They were led to believe that there was more information to be had at Griffin Studios, which is why they were now coming to a stop just outside.
They had left Santa Monica more than a little pissed, but none more so than Munin. She had been cited as saying that playtime was over, but for them there wasn't any play involved. The entire main event of the January 13th episode of Chaos had been a cluster fuck. They had went into it with a clear game plan, but right out of the gate Astrid Samson had gotten involved to throw that right out the window. Staci Herveaux, their original opponent, quit the company and escaped through the crowd leaving The BombTrax to face off against Mike Mason and the interfering Samson. Neither Press nor Youth blamed her for wanting to horn in and get some measure of revenge after what they had done to her on the previous show. Matter of fact, they had been banking on it.
Even with the change of opponent, however, it didn't make much of a difference. They had dominated the champion and the woman who was the spouse of their main reason for even being in IPW. Everything was moving right along when the unforeseen happened.
Captain All-Star.
Press knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as he thought of the old fool. The obvious irritation drew Youth's eye towards his partner, who he could tell, still wasn't over it. Youth didn't like it either, but it was what it was. If it hadn't been for the star spangled idiot they would have walked out victorious thanks to a submission. He couldn't help but feel a little bad, however, since he was the one who had eaten the pin. Sure, they stood tall in the end over the IPW Heavyweight Champion, but it would have been that much sweeter if their names had been called as the victors. As it were, they'd probably never hear the end of this because it was by far the biggest victory that either Mike Mason or Astrid Samson had ever secured for themselves.
Clearing his throat, Youth looked back out the window towards the studio. "Do you think that Otto was good on his word? I mean, this doesn't look like a hive of villany to me. Just a place where shitty music is made."
Press snorted in response and cast a sidelong glance at his partner. "Otto was telling us the truth, the only question is whether or not he was told the truth."
Youth nodded somberly as he watched what appeared to be a punk band through the large plate glass window that lined half the wall of the recording area within the studio. He supposed it was a marketing ploy to have the bands recordings be seen right at street level. He wondered how many people passed by with aspirations of becoming the next big thing. It reminded him of their fellow roster members in IPW. Their goals were so minimal, but probably seemed colossal to people who had never been anywhere or really done anything on a massive scale. He and Press had been at this as The BombTrax for over twenty years. They had been in the worldwide promotions, made great money, and held championships of the highest caliber. But that didn't mean that they couldn't remember a time when that wasn't so. They had started out in bingo halls and high school gyms, eventually climbing the ladders to promotions long since past, but similar to IPW.
Half of these people would never make it past Santa Monica. The other half would only make it to another like minded promotion, leaving only a handful that would actually go on to compete at the top of the mountain.
You had to start somewhere, he supposed. Too bad that they were poised to turn the place into ashes and bone. If they hadn't been completely invested before, they were after that loss on Chaos, which really spoke to the size of their egos rather than the people involved.
The sudden sound of his partner exiting the drivers side brought him out of his reverie and he was quick to follow suit. He had to hot step it to catch up to his large friends stride, which was purposeful and without hesitation. Their short stroll brought them to the front door just as the punk band was passing through into the street. The quartet were excitedly talking among themselves about how good their song was going to be and sharing dreams for the future. The drummer with the spiked green Mohawk twirled his stick while passing by the two men and gave them a confident nod before disappearing around the corner with his friends.
Press caught the door before it could fully shut and pulled it open as Youth stepped through to keep his eyes peeled. The big man followed suit, and the two men could hear the racket that must have been the punk bands track being edited. The two men shared a disgusted glance before coming around the corner where an older man, who was obviously still trying to appear hip, sat at a mixing table. He wore gold slacks, a loud Hawaiian button up, and brown loafers with no socks. His thinning hair was combed back over the bald spot on his crown and appeared to have enough gel in it that it could cut glass.
He was so busy at his task that he didn't notice the two men come in until Youth finally let out a cough that he had been holding in. The man jumped out of his seat, startled by their presence, and quickly turned so that the chair was between them. Beady brown eyes searched the duo's own to try and ascertain what they were about, but then he gasped as if seeing them for the first time.
"Redeemers!?!" he blurted, falling back a step while pulling the chair with him. The panic in his eyes was obvious and Youth paid close attention to try and figure out what exactly they were dealing with. Obviously a demon that didn't want any part of them.
"You guys...wait...I know you. Aren't you the ones who blew out the penthouse on the north tower of the Taj? God damn! There's a price on your heads!"
Press's jaw tightened as he took two steps forwards before noticing from the booth and out the recording studios front window that they were no longer the only ones parked just outside.
"Fuck...Kid, get ready!"
Youth followed Press' gaze to see what the cause for alarm was when the owner of the establishment took that opportunity to bolt. He was able to take about two steps before the big man's massive arm swung out and took his head off with a stiff clothesline. The hipster didn't have a chance, feet flying right out from under him as the rest of his body thundered down to the tiled floor.
"Uh...Press...GET DOWN!"
Youth dove at the big man and tried to tackle him, which of course, didn't work. It did manage, however, to get him going in the right direction so that when the bullets started to fly he was already halfway to his knees. The two men flattened out the best they could on the floor and crawled so that they were halfway under the mixing booth as glass began to shatter and fall all around them under a hail of bullets from the street. The rat-a-tat of automatic weapons barked out a symphony into the night, signaling that this was obviously more than one assailant.
A sick feeling formed at the base of Press' skull as he yelled out, "We were set up!"
"You think Otto..."
"He told us the truth, but somehow got word out first."
"Shit! When are these guys going to run out of bullets!"
Just then the gunfire stopped, and the sound of wheels peeling against rubber could be heard out front. Press chanced a quick glance over the mixer through the now clear open space where the windows used to be and gave the signal that the coast was clear. Youth pushed up onto his bottom and leaned his back against the booth, resting his forearms on his knees with a huff of gratitude. They lived to fight another day, but after tonight, he had to imagine that everyone in Vegas was aware that they were back in town, and that...well, that wasn't good.
He let out a low chuckle as he looked up at his partner, who was back on his feet but staying low to keep look out through the window in case they came back. "At least we got whoever this guy is. Maybe he knows something, hey...do you know anything?"
Youth turned to look over at the studio owner only to find that he had been hit three times, and one of those times had been his last.
"Fuck."
The exploitive deletive drew the big man's attention, and he looked down to find out what had gone wrong now. Upon seeing the dead man just behind him he grunted in disbelief.
"Back to square one then."
"Not exactly. They know we're back. That complicates things a lot."
"We knew it would happen eventually. Hell, we all but kicked in the door to LoLo's the other night. Just a matter of time."
Youth pulled himself up off the floor and dusted himself off before casting an irritated gaze at his partner. "I was just hoping maybe we had a little more than this."
Sirens cried out in the distance, signaling that the authorities were on their way.
Press shrugged at Youth's last statement and shook his head. "Speaking of time we don't have, we need to do a quick sweep of this place before we're covered in blue."
Youth nods, turning to look around the mixing booth to see if anything stood out. A door at the back of the room was closed, but he was betting that it led to the office or the bathroom. Taking his chances, he gave the knob a turn to find a desk with a couple of chairs. There was a couch along the far wall with several framed records from various artists that he had never heard of above it. Pushing through the door he stepped to the filing cabinet behind the desk and started going through the drawers when Press blustered in.
"First car's here, do we have an exit strategy?"
"Christ, they responded fast. Must have had a patrol in the area. Close the door behind you, and check behind those frames. I'm betting..." Youth paused to read one of the signatures at the bottom of the contract he had in his hands before continuing, "Jerry Goldstien has a safe somewhere."
Press begins to systematically trash the place while Youth continues going through the filing cabinet, ripping the framed records from the wall. The action produces little results until he comes to a poster for a band called "Midnight Fiasco". When the poster comes down it reveals a small concealed wall safe with a number key lock. Realizing they don't have the combo, and the only person who does was lying dead on the floor in the other room, Press sent fists into the sheetrock to reveal the studs securing the safe.
Just then the sound of a voice coming from the front of the establishment rang out. "Hey...whoever's in there...come out with your hands up!"
Youth looked up from the contract that he was reading in alarm, but when he see's that Press has found the safe, he looked over to the desk and spied the owners laptop. He dropped the contract and stepped over, yanking the power supply out of the socket, and took the lap top and tucked it under his arm. He then reached into his pocket and produced a piece of chalk, and stepped over to the far wall he proceeded to draw lines that eventually took the shape of a doorway. The sound of splintering wood gives way to a grunt by his partner as the safe came loudly out of the wall, prompting another call from the police officer out front, but this time closer.
Youth put the chalk back into his pocket and closed his eyes, whispering some words in a spidery language as the air in the room became charged. The laptop under his arm gave off a spark and he dropped it, giving a curse under his breath. He doesn't bother with it again until the spell is completed, and by the time he's done the chalk lines he had drawn are now glowing. He gave the solid wall a push at the center of the drawing and it swung open as if on hinges. The room beyond is their living room, and Press doesn't offer anything as he came from behind him and stepped through. Youth scooped up the lap top and followed suit just as the door behind them was kicked open. As the officer's gun clears the passage and he moved to survey the room, the door swung shut, and all that's left for him to see is a solid wall.
In the apartment Press set the safe on the floor huffing and puffing, looking tired. Youth ploped down on the couch, tossing the laptop off to the side and bringing his hands up to his temples.
"We left the fucking car..."
Press shrugged, turning to take a seat on top of the safe. "Couldn't be helped. We aren't the only ones parked on that street, and they're going to deduce that it was a drive by. We'll go back for it tomorrow."
It all made sense. As much sense as either of them could ever make of their given profession, but that had been close. Too close. And the second time in as so many days. He was getting tired of the constant rat race of having to protect their identity while trying to take care of their business. If these people only knew the service that they were getting. The kind of monsters that they were ridding their city of. But it wasn't in the cards for them to be made out be heroes. That was what being a Redeemer, a 'God Touched' was all about. Humility. You put your life in harms way to take out as many of the baddies that you can until you wind up dead or your debt is paid. A debt that is accrued when you do something really heinous, or when you get yourself involved with the cosmic forces at play and get caught. They were guilty of the latter, but that was a story for a different time on a different day. They needed to focus on the here and now.
"How fast do you think you can get that computer back up and running?" Press asked, stealing Youth from his inner turmoil.
"I don't know," he remarked, looking over to the computer that still had a little smoke coming out of its sides. "The spell didn't mix well with the technology. I may have fried it."
Press sighed heavily but after a moment of silence shrugged and hoisted himself onto his feet. "It's fine. We'll just have to get into this safe the old fashioned way."
The safe sat on one of the many tables in Frank's workshop down below the apartment where the Panzar demon supposedly ran an auto mechanic shop. That of course was all bullshit, but magic afforded them all an easier time in clutch situations. Press pulled the welding shield over his eyes as Youth turned the knob on top of the oxyacetylene tank. A few clicks from the sparker and the welding torch came to life. The big man adjusted the flame to where it was small and thing, and then took it to the door joints of the safe. The process took several minutes before the steel reached a temperature that would make the metal malleable, but once there Youth stepped in with a chisel and hammer and began chipping away until the first hinge fell to the floor, then the second. The area around the door they had cut was still red hot and glowing orange when Press gripped the handle and yanked it hard. The entire door came free from the safe, and he tossed it to the side to peer into the opening.
There were six or seven stacks of bound one hundred dollar bills and a Smith & Wesson .38 special lying atop a stack of papers. Youth took the weapon to examine it while Press took the money and set it carefully to the side. That would more than likely go to Frank for his help with converting the Pontiac to a Cadillac, and the other various charms he was able to procure them.
Now for the papers. Some of them were freshly signed contracts that were of little importance to the duo. A life insurance policy that was taken on out on the establishment, along with a few more papers outlining the lean from the bank. And finally...Eureka.
A note, outlining the lending of money from one Farbauti Laufeyson to a Alastor Haurus for an operation at The Sands Hotel and Casino.
"Oh shit..." Youth whispered, eyes going wide at the location.
Press shared his sentiment. This would complicate things going forward.
It was pretty easy to pick Loki out of the line up. Farbauti and Laufey were Loki's frost giant parents. An obvious tell to anyone who knew Norse mythology, but to the average everyday person, sounded foreign. He was basically saying, I am the son of Farbauti and Laufey with a name like that.
Then there was Alastor Haurus, a separate problem entirely. Haurus wasn't a god, but a vengeance demon. A demon that they knew quite well thanks to their previous time in Las Vegas. They were under the impression that they had taken care of him, but apparently not, because the date of the document was more recent and they had fled Vegas nearly four years ago. Haurus was the reason they had fled. Upon his death, his horde of demons has put out a sizable contract on the two men which set nearly every other entity in Vegas on their heads. They weren't capable of fighting an army, so they skipped town and met Munin, moved to Louisana, and set up shop there.
Yet, here was his name, big as shit. Which meant that he didn't go down the last time they meant, or someone had resurrected him from Hell.
But this...this was the icing on the cake. The Sands Hotel & Casino. Cross Recoba's stomping grounds. They knew with certainty that Recoba wasn't a demon, but he was a pain in the ass. If they were going to go there to search for answers, there was a chance that they'd run into their former enemy. An enemy that just so happened to appear in Iconic Sports Wrestling at the same time they did.
Coincidence or Fate?
Press shook his head, feeling insect like fingertips dancing up his spine. "Curse her name..." He muttered, drawing a sudden look of surprise from Youth.
"No...You don't think..." His words caught in his throat as he didn't really want to finish that question.
Press angrily tossed the paper back into the safe and turned to his partner so that he can look him directly in the eyes.
"Kid...it looks like Fate has intervened."
Youth's eyes went wide with a twinge of fear and he shakes his head 'No' vehemently. "C'mon, Man...nah...it's just coincidence."
Press's eyebrows rose and he crossed his arms over his chest while continuing to stare directly at Youth in a matter-of-fact type of way. The look deflates his younger partner right before his eyes, and Youth starts shrugging and pouting like a kid who was just told he couldn't have a happy meal.
"Man-O-Man," He wines... "Curse her freakin' name!"
They had left Santa Monica more than a little pissed, but none more so than Munin. She had been cited as saying that playtime was over, but for them there wasn't any play involved. The entire main event of the January 13th episode of Chaos had been a cluster fuck. They had went into it with a clear game plan, but right out of the gate Astrid Samson had gotten involved to throw that right out the window. Staci Herveaux, their original opponent, quit the company and escaped through the crowd leaving The BombTrax to face off against Mike Mason and the interfering Samson. Neither Press nor Youth blamed her for wanting to horn in and get some measure of revenge after what they had done to her on the previous show. Matter of fact, they had been banking on it.
Even with the change of opponent, however, it didn't make much of a difference. They had dominated the champion and the woman who was the spouse of their main reason for even being in IPW. Everything was moving right along when the unforeseen happened.
Captain All-Star.
Press knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as he thought of the old fool. The obvious irritation drew Youth's eye towards his partner, who he could tell, still wasn't over it. Youth didn't like it either, but it was what it was. If it hadn't been for the star spangled idiot they would have walked out victorious thanks to a submission. He couldn't help but feel a little bad, however, since he was the one who had eaten the pin. Sure, they stood tall in the end over the IPW Heavyweight Champion, but it would have been that much sweeter if their names had been called as the victors. As it were, they'd probably never hear the end of this because it was by far the biggest victory that either Mike Mason or Astrid Samson had ever secured for themselves.
Clearing his throat, Youth looked back out the window towards the studio. "Do you think that Otto was good on his word? I mean, this doesn't look like a hive of villany to me. Just a place where shitty music is made."
Press snorted in response and cast a sidelong glance at his partner. "Otto was telling us the truth, the only question is whether or not he was told the truth."
Youth nodded somberly as he watched what appeared to be a punk band through the large plate glass window that lined half the wall of the recording area within the studio. He supposed it was a marketing ploy to have the bands recordings be seen right at street level. He wondered how many people passed by with aspirations of becoming the next big thing. It reminded him of their fellow roster members in IPW. Their goals were so minimal, but probably seemed colossal to people who had never been anywhere or really done anything on a massive scale. He and Press had been at this as The BombTrax for over twenty years. They had been in the worldwide promotions, made great money, and held championships of the highest caliber. But that didn't mean that they couldn't remember a time when that wasn't so. They had started out in bingo halls and high school gyms, eventually climbing the ladders to promotions long since past, but similar to IPW.
Half of these people would never make it past Santa Monica. The other half would only make it to another like minded promotion, leaving only a handful that would actually go on to compete at the top of the mountain.
You had to start somewhere, he supposed. Too bad that they were poised to turn the place into ashes and bone. If they hadn't been completely invested before, they were after that loss on Chaos, which really spoke to the size of their egos rather than the people involved.
The sudden sound of his partner exiting the drivers side brought him out of his reverie and he was quick to follow suit. He had to hot step it to catch up to his large friends stride, which was purposeful and without hesitation. Their short stroll brought them to the front door just as the punk band was passing through into the street. The quartet were excitedly talking among themselves about how good their song was going to be and sharing dreams for the future. The drummer with the spiked green Mohawk twirled his stick while passing by the two men and gave them a confident nod before disappearing around the corner with his friends.
Press caught the door before it could fully shut and pulled it open as Youth stepped through to keep his eyes peeled. The big man followed suit, and the two men could hear the racket that must have been the punk bands track being edited. The two men shared a disgusted glance before coming around the corner where an older man, who was obviously still trying to appear hip, sat at a mixing table. He wore gold slacks, a loud Hawaiian button up, and brown loafers with no socks. His thinning hair was combed back over the bald spot on his crown and appeared to have enough gel in it that it could cut glass.
He was so busy at his task that he didn't notice the two men come in until Youth finally let out a cough that he had been holding in. The man jumped out of his seat, startled by their presence, and quickly turned so that the chair was between them. Beady brown eyes searched the duo's own to try and ascertain what they were about, but then he gasped as if seeing them for the first time.
"Redeemers!?!" he blurted, falling back a step while pulling the chair with him. The panic in his eyes was obvious and Youth paid close attention to try and figure out what exactly they were dealing with. Obviously a demon that didn't want any part of them.
"You guys...wait...I know you. Aren't you the ones who blew out the penthouse on the north tower of the Taj? God damn! There's a price on your heads!"
Press's jaw tightened as he took two steps forwards before noticing from the booth and out the recording studios front window that they were no longer the only ones parked just outside.
"Fuck...Kid, get ready!"
Youth followed Press' gaze to see what the cause for alarm was when the owner of the establishment took that opportunity to bolt. He was able to take about two steps before the big man's massive arm swung out and took his head off with a stiff clothesline. The hipster didn't have a chance, feet flying right out from under him as the rest of his body thundered down to the tiled floor.
"Uh...Press...GET DOWN!"
Youth dove at the big man and tried to tackle him, which of course, didn't work. It did manage, however, to get him going in the right direction so that when the bullets started to fly he was already halfway to his knees. The two men flattened out the best they could on the floor and crawled so that they were halfway under the mixing booth as glass began to shatter and fall all around them under a hail of bullets from the street. The rat-a-tat of automatic weapons barked out a symphony into the night, signaling that this was obviously more than one assailant.
A sick feeling formed at the base of Press' skull as he yelled out, "We were set up!"
"You think Otto..."
"He told us the truth, but somehow got word out first."
"Shit! When are these guys going to run out of bullets!"
Just then the gunfire stopped, and the sound of wheels peeling against rubber could be heard out front. Press chanced a quick glance over the mixer through the now clear open space where the windows used to be and gave the signal that the coast was clear. Youth pushed up onto his bottom and leaned his back against the booth, resting his forearms on his knees with a huff of gratitude. They lived to fight another day, but after tonight, he had to imagine that everyone in Vegas was aware that they were back in town, and that...well, that wasn't good.
He let out a low chuckle as he looked up at his partner, who was back on his feet but staying low to keep look out through the window in case they came back. "At least we got whoever this guy is. Maybe he knows something, hey...do you know anything?"
Youth turned to look over at the studio owner only to find that he had been hit three times, and one of those times had been his last.
"Fuck."
The exploitive deletive drew the big man's attention, and he looked down to find out what had gone wrong now. Upon seeing the dead man just behind him he grunted in disbelief.
"Back to square one then."
"Not exactly. They know we're back. That complicates things a lot."
"We knew it would happen eventually. Hell, we all but kicked in the door to LoLo's the other night. Just a matter of time."
Youth pulled himself up off the floor and dusted himself off before casting an irritated gaze at his partner. "I was just hoping maybe we had a little more than this."
Sirens cried out in the distance, signaling that the authorities were on their way.
Press shrugged at Youth's last statement and shook his head. "Speaking of time we don't have, we need to do a quick sweep of this place before we're covered in blue."
Youth nods, turning to look around the mixing booth to see if anything stood out. A door at the back of the room was closed, but he was betting that it led to the office or the bathroom. Taking his chances, he gave the knob a turn to find a desk with a couple of chairs. There was a couch along the far wall with several framed records from various artists that he had never heard of above it. Pushing through the door he stepped to the filing cabinet behind the desk and started going through the drawers when Press blustered in.
"First car's here, do we have an exit strategy?"
"Christ, they responded fast. Must have had a patrol in the area. Close the door behind you, and check behind those frames. I'm betting..." Youth paused to read one of the signatures at the bottom of the contract he had in his hands before continuing, "Jerry Goldstien has a safe somewhere."
Press begins to systematically trash the place while Youth continues going through the filing cabinet, ripping the framed records from the wall. The action produces little results until he comes to a poster for a band called "Midnight Fiasco". When the poster comes down it reveals a small concealed wall safe with a number key lock. Realizing they don't have the combo, and the only person who does was lying dead on the floor in the other room, Press sent fists into the sheetrock to reveal the studs securing the safe.
Just then the sound of a voice coming from the front of the establishment rang out. "Hey...whoever's in there...come out with your hands up!"
Youth looked up from the contract that he was reading in alarm, but when he see's that Press has found the safe, he looked over to the desk and spied the owners laptop. He dropped the contract and stepped over, yanking the power supply out of the socket, and took the lap top and tucked it under his arm. He then reached into his pocket and produced a piece of chalk, and stepped over to the far wall he proceeded to draw lines that eventually took the shape of a doorway. The sound of splintering wood gives way to a grunt by his partner as the safe came loudly out of the wall, prompting another call from the police officer out front, but this time closer.
Youth put the chalk back into his pocket and closed his eyes, whispering some words in a spidery language as the air in the room became charged. The laptop under his arm gave off a spark and he dropped it, giving a curse under his breath. He doesn't bother with it again until the spell is completed, and by the time he's done the chalk lines he had drawn are now glowing. He gave the solid wall a push at the center of the drawing and it swung open as if on hinges. The room beyond is their living room, and Press doesn't offer anything as he came from behind him and stepped through. Youth scooped up the lap top and followed suit just as the door behind them was kicked open. As the officer's gun clears the passage and he moved to survey the room, the door swung shut, and all that's left for him to see is a solid wall.
In the apartment Press set the safe on the floor huffing and puffing, looking tired. Youth ploped down on the couch, tossing the laptop off to the side and bringing his hands up to his temples.
"We left the fucking car..."
Press shrugged, turning to take a seat on top of the safe. "Couldn't be helped. We aren't the only ones parked on that street, and they're going to deduce that it was a drive by. We'll go back for it tomorrow."
It all made sense. As much sense as either of them could ever make of their given profession, but that had been close. Too close. And the second time in as so many days. He was getting tired of the constant rat race of having to protect their identity while trying to take care of their business. If these people only knew the service that they were getting. The kind of monsters that they were ridding their city of. But it wasn't in the cards for them to be made out be heroes. That was what being a Redeemer, a 'God Touched' was all about. Humility. You put your life in harms way to take out as many of the baddies that you can until you wind up dead or your debt is paid. A debt that is accrued when you do something really heinous, or when you get yourself involved with the cosmic forces at play and get caught. They were guilty of the latter, but that was a story for a different time on a different day. They needed to focus on the here and now.
"How fast do you think you can get that computer back up and running?" Press asked, stealing Youth from his inner turmoil.
"I don't know," he remarked, looking over to the computer that still had a little smoke coming out of its sides. "The spell didn't mix well with the technology. I may have fried it."
Press sighed heavily but after a moment of silence shrugged and hoisted himself onto his feet. "It's fine. We'll just have to get into this safe the old fashioned way."
*****A FEW MINUTES LATER*****
The safe sat on one of the many tables in Frank's workshop down below the apartment where the Panzar demon supposedly ran an auto mechanic shop. That of course was all bullshit, but magic afforded them all an easier time in clutch situations. Press pulled the welding shield over his eyes as Youth turned the knob on top of the oxyacetylene tank. A few clicks from the sparker and the welding torch came to life. The big man adjusted the flame to where it was small and thing, and then took it to the door joints of the safe. The process took several minutes before the steel reached a temperature that would make the metal malleable, but once there Youth stepped in with a chisel and hammer and began chipping away until the first hinge fell to the floor, then the second. The area around the door they had cut was still red hot and glowing orange when Press gripped the handle and yanked it hard. The entire door came free from the safe, and he tossed it to the side to peer into the opening.
There were six or seven stacks of bound one hundred dollar bills and a Smith & Wesson .38 special lying atop a stack of papers. Youth took the weapon to examine it while Press took the money and set it carefully to the side. That would more than likely go to Frank for his help with converting the Pontiac to a Cadillac, and the other various charms he was able to procure them.
Now for the papers. Some of them were freshly signed contracts that were of little importance to the duo. A life insurance policy that was taken on out on the establishment, along with a few more papers outlining the lean from the bank. And finally...Eureka.
A note, outlining the lending of money from one Farbauti Laufeyson to a Alastor Haurus for an operation at The Sands Hotel and Casino.
"Oh shit..." Youth whispered, eyes going wide at the location.
Press shared his sentiment. This would complicate things going forward.
It was pretty easy to pick Loki out of the line up. Farbauti and Laufey were Loki's frost giant parents. An obvious tell to anyone who knew Norse mythology, but to the average everyday person, sounded foreign. He was basically saying, I am the son of Farbauti and Laufey with a name like that.
Then there was Alastor Haurus, a separate problem entirely. Haurus wasn't a god, but a vengeance demon. A demon that they knew quite well thanks to their previous time in Las Vegas. They were under the impression that they had taken care of him, but apparently not, because the date of the document was more recent and they had fled Vegas nearly four years ago. Haurus was the reason they had fled. Upon his death, his horde of demons has put out a sizable contract on the two men which set nearly every other entity in Vegas on their heads. They weren't capable of fighting an army, so they skipped town and met Munin, moved to Louisana, and set up shop there.
Yet, here was his name, big as shit. Which meant that he didn't go down the last time they meant, or someone had resurrected him from Hell.
But this...this was the icing on the cake. The Sands Hotel & Casino. Cross Recoba's stomping grounds. They knew with certainty that Recoba wasn't a demon, but he was a pain in the ass. If they were going to go there to search for answers, there was a chance that they'd run into their former enemy. An enemy that just so happened to appear in Iconic Sports Wrestling at the same time they did.
Coincidence or Fate?
Press shook his head, feeling insect like fingertips dancing up his spine. "Curse her name..." He muttered, drawing a sudden look of surprise from Youth.
"No...You don't think..." His words caught in his throat as he didn't really want to finish that question.
Press angrily tossed the paper back into the safe and turned to his partner so that he can look him directly in the eyes.
"Kid...it looks like Fate has intervened."
Youth's eyes went wide with a twinge of fear and he shakes his head 'No' vehemently. "C'mon, Man...nah...it's just coincidence."
Press's eyebrows rose and he crossed his arms over his chest while continuing to stare directly at Youth in a matter-of-fact type of way. The look deflates his younger partner right before his eyes, and Youth starts shrugging and pouting like a kid who was just told he couldn't have a happy meal.
"Man-O-Man," He wines... "Curse her freakin' name!"
TO BE CONTINUED...
1/21/2020 [ON CAMERA]
SANTA MONICA PIER
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
SANTA MONICA PIER
SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA
The scene opens to a shot of Press and Youth hanging out on the Santa Monica Pier. Press has on a pair of jeans and a black 'BombTrax' t-shirt, while Youth is sporting a white sleeveless number with a pair of frayed jean shorts. Press leans against the railing on his elbows to take in the sea breeze, his long curly hair flapping around in the wind. Youth does much the same, only he's enjoying a slurpee purchased at one of the nearby stalls. After a few moments of taking in the sites and sounds of the pier, the camera settles on the two men as they turn around to address their audience.
"Congratulations are in order..." Youth says, followed by a loud slurp of the icy goodness.
Press's mouth twitches in annoyance at the sound, crossing his arms over his chest in protest. Youth looks up just in time to catch the expression and slowly puts the slurpee behind him on the railing.
Seeing that his partner is in no mood, he shrugs and turns back to the camera. "As I was saying...congratulations to Mike Mason and Astrid Samson for their victory on the last Chaos. I mean, that's a big win for you two. Seriously...HUGE!"
Youth stretches his arms out wide, a smirk forming on his face.
"I hope you guys enjoy it. Savor it. Cause we're afraid that's the only one we can afford to give away. I mean, lucky for you, we aren't like every other person in this fed whose first remarks would probably be to call foul. We aren't the type to make up excuses, and we certainly aren't going to cry over spilled milk. We know what to do to bounce back, and how to get it done. So good on you. Cause now it's time to get serious."
Youth falls back a step, grin still in place, as the serious visage of Press moves in front and center.
"One time, kids. Like he said, we aren't going to bitch and moan about it, but one time is all you get. And I can promise you this, Captain All-Star, if that was your one time...you wasted it."
Press's nose curled as if just saying the All-Star's name put a bad taste in his mouth, but he quickly recovered to continue.
"We are almost positive that Astrid is going to be quick to flap that cum catcher of hers about how she got the pin for her team, about how we're not so big and bad. And hey, that's fine. Prove our point for us, Astrid. That we are the biggest and baddest thing to walk through the doors of this company, and a win over us is about as good as taking home the gold."
Press draws back, expression sour as he sucks air through his teeth in the 'hisss' sound.
"Bet that smarts, doesn't it. You've been in the hunt for Mike Mason's belt for awhile now. And why not? You're the 'Iconic Queen'. You're the one whose been busting your ass to try and put the company on the map, carry the standard. It should have been you and Mike Mason for the title at New Year, Who Dis. Only...we arrived on the scene and put the champion through a table..."
"Twice!" Youth interjects gleefully.
Press nods, a grim smile projecting onto your screen.
"So instead you're stuck facing us, and lets be honest with ourselves. How do you think that's going to go? The last time you were face down on the mat crying out in pain, slapping the canvas in submission. You didn't get the best of us, you were saved. Saved by that do-gooder Captain All-Star. And what did you do after the match before the dust even settled? You ran off like a coward, just like our original opponent, Staci Herveaux, the very woman who you chased off moments before the contest. Cause somewhere deep down, Astrid, you do have some idea of the danger that you now face. This isn't like anything or anyone you've ever challenged before."
Press shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.
"Somewhere...deep down...you know that saying that we're throwbacks to the nineties or coming up with silly nicknames for us isn't enough. I mean, you people call yourself icons, and sometimes I think you've bought into your own delusional propaganda. Thus far the most I've seen any of you do is take our words and twist them up in rebuttal, like you're trying to ad-lib bullet points. I'm surprised that Stasi didn't have a god damn transcript of our last promo laid out in a Powerpoint so that she could make sure she didn't miss anything. You lot have no creativity, no originality, and no substance. The very best you can do is rub up against a team like us so that you can copy off our fucking work."
Press settled back now, still looking disappointed.
"Sounds harsh, right? But we're not without mercy. We know you and your partner are out of your depth, so we're going to throw you a bone."
Press indicates with a swipe of his hand that the floor is now Youth's. The younger of the two pushes forwards to take center stage, fingers steepled against his lower lip which is peeled back into a devilish grin.
"We've developed a little bit of an M.O. in these past few shows. We show up and bad things happen for people and various furniture. Basically, if its not bolted down we'll use it to hurt you. But there's a time and place for everything, and this upcoming super show is not the time, nor place, for The Queen Bees. So let me give you ladies some assurances. Neither one of you will be touched before our match, at least not by us. No backstage antics. No sneak attacks. We want you two fresh as a daisy when you come down to that ring for the slaughter. That way, even if it's just for your benefit, there is no doubt left in your pretty little heads that the landscape has changed here in Iconic Pro Wrestling. The queens are about to be deposed. All Hail the King's!"
Youth winks to the camera before continuing.
"Furthermore, we watched the playback of our last outing and couldn't help but hear the commentary team making their idiot statements about how we can't just name ourselves the IPW Tag Team Champions, and blah, blah, blah. They also mentioned that The Queen Bees were a more deserving tag team and would have some problem with me and my partner parading around as the champions. Especially given that you two are undefeated in tag team competition. Whaddaya think? Is that true? Is that a problem?"
Youth gives a mock pout to the camera, using his fists to wipe at his eyes as if he's crying.
"Well, you're in luck! We've decided that if these stooges feel that way, then everyone probably feels that way, so why not put the pretty new titles on the line. That's right, you heard it here first, The BombTrax versus The Queen Bees is now an IPW Tag Team Championship match!"
Youth bounces up and down as Press moves to step beside him.
"I know what you're thinking. What's the catch?"
Press snickers, shaking his head.
"There is no catch. We're not the bad guys here. You people have been left to run around here with zero consequences, starting with Joshua Samson even opening the place. After all the shit he's pulled and been involved with, he thought he could just move on to the next thing. And yeah, I get why it's confusing for some of you. He got his ass beat, put in a coma, and damn near killed. Got his company gutted right out from under him. Isn't that enough?"
Press shrugs nonchalantly.
"No. Joshua Samson needed to be taught that there are responsibilities that accompany your actions, but it wasn't anyone in this shit holes place to be the one to teach him that. 'THAT'...is the point of all of this. That is why we're going to go into this super show and beat the holy hell out of his wife, no matter what asshat partner she brings alongside her. That is why we are going to continue to dominate, destroy, and make every single Icon's life an exercise in violence."
His eyes turn into dark, all consuming orbs.
"Cause contrary to popular belief, we aren't some flash in the pan. We aren't just simply going to fade away into that good night. The only way to be rid of us is to feed us our fill, or until we get bored."
Youth suddenly dances in front of his partner, cheesy grin on his face.
"And that isn't likely to happen anytime soon, cause you kids are SOOOOOOOOOO delicious to play with! Until next time, snack on that for awhile."
With that final line Youth tosses the remainder of his Slurpee into the lens of the camera, and as the deep red ice slides down the screen, one can only be left with the thought of the blood that will be spilled at New Year, Who Dis. Fade to Black.
"Congratulations are in order..." Youth says, followed by a loud slurp of the icy goodness.
Press's mouth twitches in annoyance at the sound, crossing his arms over his chest in protest. Youth looks up just in time to catch the expression and slowly puts the slurpee behind him on the railing.
Seeing that his partner is in no mood, he shrugs and turns back to the camera. "As I was saying...congratulations to Mike Mason and Astrid Samson for their victory on the last Chaos. I mean, that's a big win for you two. Seriously...HUGE!"
Youth stretches his arms out wide, a smirk forming on his face.
"I hope you guys enjoy it. Savor it. Cause we're afraid that's the only one we can afford to give away. I mean, lucky for you, we aren't like every other person in this fed whose first remarks would probably be to call foul. We aren't the type to make up excuses, and we certainly aren't going to cry over spilled milk. We know what to do to bounce back, and how to get it done. So good on you. Cause now it's time to get serious."
Youth falls back a step, grin still in place, as the serious visage of Press moves in front and center.
"One time, kids. Like he said, we aren't going to bitch and moan about it, but one time is all you get. And I can promise you this, Captain All-Star, if that was your one time...you wasted it."
Press's nose curled as if just saying the All-Star's name put a bad taste in his mouth, but he quickly recovered to continue.
"We are almost positive that Astrid is going to be quick to flap that cum catcher of hers about how she got the pin for her team, about how we're not so big and bad. And hey, that's fine. Prove our point for us, Astrid. That we are the biggest and baddest thing to walk through the doors of this company, and a win over us is about as good as taking home the gold."
Press draws back, expression sour as he sucks air through his teeth in the 'hisss' sound.
"Bet that smarts, doesn't it. You've been in the hunt for Mike Mason's belt for awhile now. And why not? You're the 'Iconic Queen'. You're the one whose been busting your ass to try and put the company on the map, carry the standard. It should have been you and Mike Mason for the title at New Year, Who Dis. Only...we arrived on the scene and put the champion through a table..."
"Twice!" Youth interjects gleefully.
Press nods, a grim smile projecting onto your screen.
"So instead you're stuck facing us, and lets be honest with ourselves. How do you think that's going to go? The last time you were face down on the mat crying out in pain, slapping the canvas in submission. You didn't get the best of us, you were saved. Saved by that do-gooder Captain All-Star. And what did you do after the match before the dust even settled? You ran off like a coward, just like our original opponent, Staci Herveaux, the very woman who you chased off moments before the contest. Cause somewhere deep down, Astrid, you do have some idea of the danger that you now face. This isn't like anything or anyone you've ever challenged before."
Press shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.
"Somewhere...deep down...you know that saying that we're throwbacks to the nineties or coming up with silly nicknames for us isn't enough. I mean, you people call yourself icons, and sometimes I think you've bought into your own delusional propaganda. Thus far the most I've seen any of you do is take our words and twist them up in rebuttal, like you're trying to ad-lib bullet points. I'm surprised that Stasi didn't have a god damn transcript of our last promo laid out in a Powerpoint so that she could make sure she didn't miss anything. You lot have no creativity, no originality, and no substance. The very best you can do is rub up against a team like us so that you can copy off our fucking work."
Press settled back now, still looking disappointed.
"Sounds harsh, right? But we're not without mercy. We know you and your partner are out of your depth, so we're going to throw you a bone."
Press indicates with a swipe of his hand that the floor is now Youth's. The younger of the two pushes forwards to take center stage, fingers steepled against his lower lip which is peeled back into a devilish grin.
"We've developed a little bit of an M.O. in these past few shows. We show up and bad things happen for people and various furniture. Basically, if its not bolted down we'll use it to hurt you. But there's a time and place for everything, and this upcoming super show is not the time, nor place, for The Queen Bees. So let me give you ladies some assurances. Neither one of you will be touched before our match, at least not by us. No backstage antics. No sneak attacks. We want you two fresh as a daisy when you come down to that ring for the slaughter. That way, even if it's just for your benefit, there is no doubt left in your pretty little heads that the landscape has changed here in Iconic Pro Wrestling. The queens are about to be deposed. All Hail the King's!"
Youth winks to the camera before continuing.
"Furthermore, we watched the playback of our last outing and couldn't help but hear the commentary team making their idiot statements about how we can't just name ourselves the IPW Tag Team Champions, and blah, blah, blah. They also mentioned that The Queen Bees were a more deserving tag team and would have some problem with me and my partner parading around as the champions. Especially given that you two are undefeated in tag team competition. Whaddaya think? Is that true? Is that a problem?"
Youth gives a mock pout to the camera, using his fists to wipe at his eyes as if he's crying.
"Well, you're in luck! We've decided that if these stooges feel that way, then everyone probably feels that way, so why not put the pretty new titles on the line. That's right, you heard it here first, The BombTrax versus The Queen Bees is now an IPW Tag Team Championship match!"
Youth bounces up and down as Press moves to step beside him.
"I know what you're thinking. What's the catch?"
Press snickers, shaking his head.
"There is no catch. We're not the bad guys here. You people have been left to run around here with zero consequences, starting with Joshua Samson even opening the place. After all the shit he's pulled and been involved with, he thought he could just move on to the next thing. And yeah, I get why it's confusing for some of you. He got his ass beat, put in a coma, and damn near killed. Got his company gutted right out from under him. Isn't that enough?"
Press shrugs nonchalantly.
"No. Joshua Samson needed to be taught that there are responsibilities that accompany your actions, but it wasn't anyone in this shit holes place to be the one to teach him that. 'THAT'...is the point of all of this. That is why we're going to go into this super show and beat the holy hell out of his wife, no matter what asshat partner she brings alongside her. That is why we are going to continue to dominate, destroy, and make every single Icon's life an exercise in violence."
His eyes turn into dark, all consuming orbs.
"Cause contrary to popular belief, we aren't some flash in the pan. We aren't just simply going to fade away into that good night. The only way to be rid of us is to feed us our fill, or until we get bored."
Youth suddenly dances in front of his partner, cheesy grin on his face.
"And that isn't likely to happen anytime soon, cause you kids are SOOOOOOOOOO delicious to play with! Until next time, snack on that for awhile."
With that final line Youth tosses the remainder of his Slurpee into the lens of the camera, and as the deep red ice slides down the screen, one can only be left with the thought of the blood that will be spilled at New Year, Who Dis. Fade to Black.