Post by Press1269 on Feb 14, 2020 21:10:39 GMT
The scene opens up to a shot of Press sitting on one of the long benches in the locker room of the Xayarena, his travel bag laid out before him, as he shuffles through ring gear, athletic tape, and other various items, obviously in search of something. After a few moments of this, his lips curl back from his teeth into a snarl, and he jerks the bag closed in disgust. His hand moves up to his forehead to rub his temples, and he leans forward, resting his elbow on his thigh. It was obvious something was bothering him, probably the fact that his tag team partner, Flaming Youth, had been sent to the hospital after his match at the start of the show. He knew that something had been off about his partner for the past couple of weeks, but he never would have dreamed Youth would keep an injury from him. That was totally unprofessional, and could have gotten him, or their opponents, permanently injured.
A black finger-less glove lands on top of the travel bag, the very item that Press had been looking for, and the big man swivels his head up in surprise to spot Youth standing in the doorway, still wearing a hospital bracelet around his wrist. He flashes a smile at the big man, who grabs the glove, and rises to his full height, a look of quiet rage sweeping over his features.
PRESS: I should whip your ass...
He made the comment, but it trails off, and Youth smirks, then nods.
YOUTH: I think you've got all the ass you can handle tonight in Stevie Harris. You didn't think I'd let you go out there for the biggest match of your career without wishing you good luck, did you?
Press seems to soften at that, slipping the glove onto his right hand, and then making a fist to make sure that it was properly in place. He looks up to Youth with a half smile, and nods himself.
PRESS: Even so, you know we're going to talk about all this after the show?
YOUTH: Yeah, yeah. But right now, I want you to go out there and bring that championship gold home to The BombTrax, capice?
Youth smirks, extending his hand. The big man stares at his partner for a minute, but eventually steps over and takes the offered hand and pulls the flyer in for a hug. He tousles his mop of dark stringy hair, and starts for the door. When he reaches the portal he looks over his shoulder one last time, and Youth lifts his chin with a question.
YOUTH: You ready for this?
A dark visage falls over the big man, the accompanying smile nothing but wicked.
PRESS: Time to teach the preacher the true power of God's wonders.
The Black Gloved fist fell into the palm of his other hand, and with a determined look, Press turns and strides out of the room. Youth simply shakes his head, and plops down to stare at the monitor in the corner broadcasting live footage from the arena.
YOUTH: Thy rod and thy staff indeed.
A black finger-less glove lands on top of the travel bag, the very item that Press had been looking for, and the big man swivels his head up in surprise to spot Youth standing in the doorway, still wearing a hospital bracelet around his wrist. He flashes a smile at the big man, who grabs the glove, and rises to his full height, a look of quiet rage sweeping over his features.
PRESS: I should whip your ass...
He made the comment, but it trails off, and Youth smirks, then nods.
YOUTH: I think you've got all the ass you can handle tonight in Stevie Harris. You didn't think I'd let you go out there for the biggest match of your career without wishing you good luck, did you?
Press seems to soften at that, slipping the glove onto his right hand, and then making a fist to make sure that it was properly in place. He looks up to Youth with a half smile, and nods himself.
PRESS: Even so, you know we're going to talk about all this after the show?
YOUTH: Yeah, yeah. But right now, I want you to go out there and bring that championship gold home to The BombTrax, capice?
Youth smirks, extending his hand. The big man stares at his partner for a minute, but eventually steps over and takes the offered hand and pulls the flyer in for a hug. He tousles his mop of dark stringy hair, and starts for the door. When he reaches the portal he looks over his shoulder one last time, and Youth lifts his chin with a question.
YOUTH: You ready for this?
A dark visage falls over the big man, the accompanying smile nothing but wicked.
PRESS: Time to teach the preacher the true power of God's wonders.
The Black Gloved fist fell into the palm of his other hand, and with a determined look, Press turns and strides out of the room. Youth simply shakes his head, and plops down to stare at the monitor in the corner broadcasting live footage from the arena.
YOUTH: Thy rod and thy staff indeed.