Post by Press1269 on Feb 20, 2020 15:34:01 GMT
A camera is watching a monitor in the back as Johnny Raike celebrates on the midway with his Titans of the Midway Championship held over his head. The view suddenly pans around to see The BombTrax watching the monitor as well. Youth is wearing a white wife beater, and baggy black skater pants, and it's obvious he has already taken a shower since his appearance earlier in the night. Press is in his ring gear, the belt slung over his shoulder, and his right hand is rubbing his chin as he watches Johnny's celebration. Youth looks up at the big man with a quizzical expression, and quirks his mouth up in a question.
YOUTH: Looks like they're one and one.
PRESS: Seems so.
YOUTH: So which one would you rather face?
PRESS: Got to get through this next match first. Might not even be the champion.
Youth raises an eyebrow at that, and Press can't hide the forthcoming smirk.
YOUTH: Har, Har.
PRESS: I don't guess it really matters.
YOUTH: What's that?
PRESS: Which one I face. I'll do business with either one of them. I respect Johnny enough to treat him fair, but I'm not going to lie, it'd sort of be nice to see him send this kid's teeth down his throat in the Main Event.
YOUTH: Awww, but him's is special.
Press' face grew grim as he stared at the monitor.
PRESS: No, he's arrogant, disrespectful, and an asshole. Despite his many (air quotes) "YEARS" in the business, he's never come up against anything like us. But he'll never admit that, cause he probably really believes that he knows it all. He'll learn. Even if I have to be his teacher.
YOUTH: Careful, big guy, you're starting to sound an awful lot like an arrogant, disrespectful, asshole.
Press casts Youth an unflattering glance, while Youth beams back at his tag-partner.
PRESS: They'll be ready for me soon. I better get going.
YOUTH: Yeah, about that. Good luck out there, and if you get the chance, put that mother fucker out for a few months so he can see if he likes it.
Press' eyes narrow, and a wicked smile works it's way onto his lips.
PRESS: No problem.
Youth returns the grin before turning back to keep watching the monitor, while Press disappears down the hall.
YOUTH: Looks like they're one and one.
PRESS: Seems so.
YOUTH: So which one would you rather face?
PRESS: Got to get through this next match first. Might not even be the champion.
Youth raises an eyebrow at that, and Press can't hide the forthcoming smirk.
YOUTH: Har, Har.
PRESS: I don't guess it really matters.
YOUTH: What's that?
PRESS: Which one I face. I'll do business with either one of them. I respect Johnny enough to treat him fair, but I'm not going to lie, it'd sort of be nice to see him send this kid's teeth down his throat in the Main Event.
YOUTH: Awww, but him's is special.
Press' face grew grim as he stared at the monitor.
PRESS: No, he's arrogant, disrespectful, and an asshole. Despite his many (air quotes) "YEARS" in the business, he's never come up against anything like us. But he'll never admit that, cause he probably really believes that he knows it all. He'll learn. Even if I have to be his teacher.
YOUTH: Careful, big guy, you're starting to sound an awful lot like an arrogant, disrespectful, asshole.
Press casts Youth an unflattering glance, while Youth beams back at his tag-partner.
PRESS: They'll be ready for me soon. I better get going.
YOUTH: Yeah, about that. Good luck out there, and if you get the chance, put that mother fucker out for a few months so he can see if he likes it.
Press' eyes narrow, and a wicked smile works it's way onto his lips.
PRESS: No problem.
Youth returns the grin before turning back to keep watching the monitor, while Press disappears down the hall.