Post by Press1269 on Feb 14, 2020 20:15:48 GMT
Alex Cross wrapped a towel around his lower half as he made his way out of the shower. This facility was an actual arena built around wrestling, and came with perks that the ‘carnival’ simply couldn’t accommodate. Like talent dressing rooms, and private bathrooms. He had just gotten out of his street clothes and cleaned up so he could get ready to debut against Djimon Sanders.
He briefly checked himself in the mirror, and then stepped through the doorway that led to the locker room. When he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.There, sitting casually across one of the long benches, was Flaming Youth, a coy grin on his face.
He perked up at the sight of Alex, whose facial expression had already undergone the change from surprised to pissed. Just as he was about to say something, a large hand clamped duct tape over his mouth, and he could feel his right arm being wrenched behind his back. Something cold and metallic wrapped around his wrist, and he twisted and writhed to turn, but the powerful grip held him in place. The other arm was pulled back against his will, and he heard a click, realizing now that his hands had been handcuffed behind his back.
A firm grip took him by the shoulders, and he let out a muffled protest through the duct tape as he was unceremoniously forced to sit across from Youth. His unseen jailor was obvious to him even before Press stepped around from behind him, and took a seat next to his partner.
The big man held out his hand in a placating gesture, and waved off the futile attempts that Alex Cross made to escape.
Press: “Hold your horses, sweet heart. We aren’t here for that.”
Press crossed his arms over his chest, while Youth stood up, and began to pace the room.
Press: “Listen, Alex. Can I call you Alex? Are we on a first name basis?”
Alex gave a wide eyed muffled response, but Youth didn’t seem to pay him any attention, continuing his pace around the room and nodding to himself.
Press: “Yeah, Alex will do. Listen, Alex, we didn’t come here for a repeat of our last encounter. No, we just wanted to touch base with you. Give you the skinny. Throw you a bone. Let you in on the haps, if you will. But let’s face it, between us, you’re a bit of a talker. Like to get all animated and shit, might not give us a chance to say what we came here to say, and so we figured the easiest way to get a conversation out of you was to do this.”
Youth used his hand to gesture for the camera at the bound and gagged mass that was Alex Cross. Press grinned, and leaned forward from his seat.
Press: “You understand, don’t you big guy. Kind of hard to have a ‘civil’ conversation considering the last couple of weeks. You know, with that beat down we gave you at that other place. Thank God, that’s over, right?”
Press laughed, and made a non-genuine wave of his hand followed by a fake smile.
Press: “That place was never really the right fit for any of us, and luckily, you and I know the right people to get us into a more stable environment.”
Youth snickered, and shook his head.
Flaming Youth: “More stable….yeah, right.”
Press ignored his partner, and continued his fake smile.
Press: “What we really came here to say, is that we’re sorry. That was never our plan, Alex, you’ve gotta believe us. We would never come out at the end of a hard fought match like you had with their former creampuff champion, well…”
Press allowed a chuckle,
Press: “their creampuff champion’s valet.”
He backs the statement up with a point of his finger, as if a light bulb went off in his head.
Press: “And then proceed to stomp the shit out of you in a two on one assault the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Rodney King. I mean, that’s not our style.”
Flaming Youth: “Well,”
Youth adds, shrugging in mock disappointment.
Flaming Youth: “It kind of is.”
Press nodded, shrugging his shoulders in agreement, and then turning back to Alex with his mask of non-sincerity.
Press: “Yeah, but….we’d never do that to you!”
He exclaimed, twinkles dancing in his eyes from fake tears.
Press: “Alfred Candy came to us, at the last minute, and handed us this crappy script that basically said that we had to come out at the end and make the creampuff look even better than he did, by allowing him to slip through the cracks and giving you the beat down of your life. We didn’t have any intentions of tangling with you, Alex. You gotta believe us.”
Press wiped at his eyes to remove the fake tears, and then looked back to Cross with mock sincerity, nodding in his direction.
Press: “I’m so glad you understand, Alex. Business is business. We all have mouths to feed.”
Youth stepped up beside Cross, and slapped him good naturedly on the shoulder. Alex recoiled, having forgotten he was even in the room after Press’ dramatic performance.
Flaming Youth: “So there it is, Alex.”
Youth stated rather matter-of-factly.
Flaming Youth: “Now we can all be pals again. Friends. Amigos. Compadres. Besties. BFF’s! As you see, we’re not bad guys. Hell, we’re all a lot alike. We even run in some of the same circles. Just think of the possibilities, bucko. This has to be a huge relief, man. Lord knows, I feel better. Now you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble.”
Youth starts for the door, but turns back to watch as Press stands up, the mask of fake remorse melting into one of malice and disdain. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small metallic key, presumably for the cuffs around Cross’ wrists, and leans down to look Alex Cross directly in the eyes.
Press: “Nah, you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble…….until you do. And when that day comes, son, there ain’t a circle in this world big enough to protect you from us.”
With that, he drops the keys directly in front of Cross, and starts for the door. Cross watches him pass through the portal with baleful eyes, and Youth just holds his hands out to his sides.
Flaming Youth: “What can I say, dude. Sometimes being pals is tough.” Youth throws Alex a boyish grin, and then dashes out the door.
Cross breathes a breath of relief, then reaches down for the keys that Press left behind. As he did a shadow darkened over him, and a white pointed toe stepped into his view and tapped gingerly on the locker room tile.
He briefly checked himself in the mirror, and then stepped through the doorway that led to the locker room. When he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.There, sitting casually across one of the long benches, was Flaming Youth, a coy grin on his face.
He perked up at the sight of Alex, whose facial expression had already undergone the change from surprised to pissed. Just as he was about to say something, a large hand clamped duct tape over his mouth, and he could feel his right arm being wrenched behind his back. Something cold and metallic wrapped around his wrist, and he twisted and writhed to turn, but the powerful grip held him in place. The other arm was pulled back against his will, and he heard a click, realizing now that his hands had been handcuffed behind his back.
A firm grip took him by the shoulders, and he let out a muffled protest through the duct tape as he was unceremoniously forced to sit across from Youth. His unseen jailor was obvious to him even before Press stepped around from behind him, and took a seat next to his partner.
The big man held out his hand in a placating gesture, and waved off the futile attempts that Alex Cross made to escape.
Press: “Hold your horses, sweet heart. We aren’t here for that.”
Press crossed his arms over his chest, while Youth stood up, and began to pace the room.
Press: “Listen, Alex. Can I call you Alex? Are we on a first name basis?”
Alex gave a wide eyed muffled response, but Youth didn’t seem to pay him any attention, continuing his pace around the room and nodding to himself.
Press: “Yeah, Alex will do. Listen, Alex, we didn’t come here for a repeat of our last encounter. No, we just wanted to touch base with you. Give you the skinny. Throw you a bone. Let you in on the haps, if you will. But let’s face it, between us, you’re a bit of a talker. Like to get all animated and shit, might not give us a chance to say what we came here to say, and so we figured the easiest way to get a conversation out of you was to do this.”
Youth used his hand to gesture for the camera at the bound and gagged mass that was Alex Cross. Press grinned, and leaned forward from his seat.
Press: “You understand, don’t you big guy. Kind of hard to have a ‘civil’ conversation considering the last couple of weeks. You know, with that beat down we gave you at that other place. Thank God, that’s over, right?”
Press laughed, and made a non-genuine wave of his hand followed by a fake smile.
Press: “That place was never really the right fit for any of us, and luckily, you and I know the right people to get us into a more stable environment.”
Youth snickered, and shook his head.
Flaming Youth: “More stable….yeah, right.”
Press ignored his partner, and continued his fake smile.
Press: “What we really came here to say, is that we’re sorry. That was never our plan, Alex, you’ve gotta believe us. We would never come out at the end of a hard fought match like you had with their former creampuff champion, well…”
Press allowed a chuckle,
Press: “their creampuff champion’s valet.”
He backs the statement up with a point of his finger, as if a light bulb went off in his head.
Press: “And then proceed to stomp the shit out of you in a two on one assault the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Rodney King. I mean, that’s not our style.”
Flaming Youth: “Well,”
Youth adds, shrugging in mock disappointment.
Flaming Youth: “It kind of is.”
Press nodded, shrugging his shoulders in agreement, and then turning back to Alex with his mask of non-sincerity.
Press: “Yeah, but….we’d never do that to you!”
He exclaimed, twinkles dancing in his eyes from fake tears.
Press: “Alfred Candy came to us, at the last minute, and handed us this crappy script that basically said that we had to come out at the end and make the creampuff look even better than he did, by allowing him to slip through the cracks and giving you the beat down of your life. We didn’t have any intentions of tangling with you, Alex. You gotta believe us.”
Press wiped at his eyes to remove the fake tears, and then looked back to Cross with mock sincerity, nodding in his direction.
Press: “I’m so glad you understand, Alex. Business is business. We all have mouths to feed.”
Youth stepped up beside Cross, and slapped him good naturedly on the shoulder. Alex recoiled, having forgotten he was even in the room after Press’ dramatic performance.
Flaming Youth: “So there it is, Alex.”
Youth stated rather matter-of-factly.
Flaming Youth: “Now we can all be pals again. Friends. Amigos. Compadres. Besties. BFF’s! As you see, we’re not bad guys. Hell, we’re all a lot alike. We even run in some of the same circles. Just think of the possibilities, bucko. This has to be a huge relief, man. Lord knows, I feel better. Now you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble.”
Youth starts for the door, but turns back to watch as Press stands up, the mask of fake remorse melting into one of malice and disdain. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small metallic key, presumably for the cuffs around Cross’ wrists, and leans down to look Alex Cross directly in the eyes.
Press: “Nah, you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble…….until you do. And when that day comes, son, there ain’t a circle in this world big enough to protect you from us.”
With that, he drops the keys directly in front of Cross, and starts for the door. Cross watches him pass through the portal with baleful eyes, and Youth just holds his hands out to his sides.
Flaming Youth: “What can I say, dude. Sometimes being pals is tough.” Youth throws Alex a boyish grin, and then dashes out the door.
Cross breathes a breath of relief, then reaches down for the keys that Press left behind. As he did a shadow darkened over him, and a white pointed toe stepped into his view and tapped gingerly on the locker room tile.